“Missile?” It was the first I’d heard of that possibility.
“Not likely, but it’s been suggested. Remember all the hoopla about a missile bringing down TWA 800? Pierre Salinger bet his nuts the navy was to blame.”
I nodded.
“And these hills are home to a number of militia groups. Maybe Eric Rudolph’s white-trash buds got into the arms market and bought a new toy.”
Rudolph was wanted in connection with a number of abortion clinic attacks and as a suspect in the bombing at the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. Rumors persisted that he’d fled to these hills.
“Any idea where this explosion was centered?”
“It’s too early to tell. The cabin-interior documentation group is compiling a seat damage chart that’ll help pinpoint the blast.”
Ryan pushed with his toes, but I held the swing firm.
“Our group is doing the same for wounds and fractures. Right now it looks like the worst injuries occurred in the back of the plane.” The anthropologists and pathologists were diagramming the distribution of trauma by seat location. “What about the radar group?”
“Nothing unexpected. Following takeoff, the flight routed northeast from the airport toward Athens. The Atlanta air traffic control center is in charge up to Winston-Salem, where Washington takes over, so the plane never left Atlanta ATC. The radar shows an emergency call by the pilot twenty minutes and thirty seconds into the flight. Approximately ninety seconds later the target broke into two, possibly three pieces, and disappeared from the screen.”
Headlights appeared far down the mountain. Ryan and I watched them climb through the dark, swing onto the drive, then cut out in the lot to the left of the house. Moments later a figure materialized on the path. When it crossed in front of us, Ryan spoke.
“Long day?”
“Who’s that?” The man was barely an imprint against the black of the sky.
“Andy Ryan.”
“Well, bonsoir, sir. I’d forgotten you were billeted here.” The voice sounded like years of whiskey. All I could make of its owner was a burly man in a dozer cap.
“The lilac shower gel is mine.”
“I’ve been respecting that, Detective Ryan.”
“I’d buy you a beer but the bar just closed.”
The man climbed to the porch, dragged a chair opposite the swing, placed an athletic bag beside it, and sat. The dim light revealed a fleshy nose and cheeks mottled with broken veins.
When introduced, FBI Special Agent Byron McMahon removed the hat and bowed in my direction. I saw thick white hair, centered and splayed like a cockscomb.
“This one’s on me.” Unzipping the bag, McMahon produced a six-pack of Coors.
“Devil liquor,” said Ryan, pulling a beer from the plastic web.
“Yes,” agreed McMahon. “Bless him.” He waggled a can at me.
I wanted that beer as much as I’d wanted anything in a long time. I remembered the feel of booze filtering through my veins, the warmth rising inside me as the molecules of alcohol blended with my own. The sense of relief, well-being.
But I’d learned some things about myself. It had taken years, but I now understood that every double helix in me carries a pledge to Bacchus. Though craving the release, I knew the euphoria would be temporary, the anger and self-loathing would last a long time. I could not drink.
“No, thanks.”
“There’s plenty where this came from.”
“That’s the problem.”
McMahon smiled, freed a can, and dropped the others into his bag.
“So what’s the thinking at the FBI?” Ryan asked.
“Some son of a bitch blew a plane out of the sky.”
“Who does the Bureau like?”
“Your biker buddies score high on a lot of dance cards. This Petricelli was a lowlife sleaze with soup for brains, but he was well connected.”
“And?”
“Could be a professional hit.”
A breeze swayed Ruby’s baskets, and black shadows danced on the banisters and floorboards.
“Here’s another script: Mrs. Martha Simington was seated in 1A. Three months ago Haskell Simington insured his wife for two million big ones.”
“That’s a chunk of change.”
“Goes a long way toward easing hubby through his pain. Oh, and I forgot to mention. The couple have been living apart for four years.”
“Is Simington enough of a mutant to cap eighty-eight people?” Ryan drained his Coors and tossed the empty into McMahon’s athletic bag.
“We’re getting to know Simington real well.”
McMahon mimicked Ryan’s performance with his empty can.
“Here’s another scenario: 12F was occupied by a nineteen-year-old named Anurudha Mahendran. The kid was a foreign student from Sri Lanka and played goalie on the soccer team.”
McMahon released two more beers and handed one to Ryan.
“Back home, Anurudha’s uncle works for Voice of Tigers Radio.”
“As in Tamil Tigers?”
“Yes, ma’am. The guy’s a loudmouth, undoubtedly slots high on the government’s wish list for terminal illness.”
“You suspect the Sri Lankan government?” I was astounded.
“No. But there are extremists on both sides.”
“If you can’t persuade unc, go for the kid. Send a message.”
Ryan popped the new beer.
“It may be a long shot, but we have to consider it. Not forgetting our local resources, of course.”
“Local resources?” I asked.
“Two country preachers who live near here. The Reverend Isaiah Claiborne swears the Reverend Luke Bowman shot the plane down.” Another pop. “They’re rival snake handlers.”
“Snake handlers?”
I ignored Ryan’s question. “Claiborne witnessed something?”
“He insists he saw a white streak shoot from behind Bowman’s house, followed by an explosion.”
“Is the FBI taking him seriously?”
McMahon shrugged. “The time tallies. The location would be right with regard to the flight path.”
“What snakes?” Ryan persisted.
“Any word on the voice tapes?” I segued to another subject, not wanting further commentary on the spiritual fervor of our mountain neighbors.
“The calls were made by a white American male with no distinguishable accent.”
“That narrows the field to how many million?”
I caught movement in McMahon’s eyes, as though he were seriously considering the question.
“A few.”
McMahon drained his beer, crumpled the can, and added it to his collection. Rising, he wished us both a good evening, and headed for the door. The bell jangled, and moments later a light went on in an upstairs window.
Save for the creak of Ruby’s planters, the porch was totally quiet. Ryan lit a cigarette, then, “Did you do coyote patrol?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No coyotes. No exposed coffins.”
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“A house.”
“Who lives there?”
“Hansel and Gretel and the cannibal witch.” I stood. “How the hell should I know?”
“Was anyone home?”
“No one rushed out to offer me tea.”
“Is the place abandoned?”
I slung my pack over one shoulder and considered the question.
“I’m not sure. There were gardens once, but those have gone to hell. The house is so well built it’s hard to know if it’s being maintained or if it’s just impervious to damage.”
He waited.
“There is one peculiar thing. From the front, the place is just another unpainted mountain lodge. But around back it has a walled enclosure and a courtyard.”
Ryan’s face went apricot, receded into the darkness.
“Tell me about these snake handlers. You have snake handlers in North Carol
ina?”
I was about to decline when the bell tinkled again. I looked, expecting to see McMahon, but no one appeared.
“Another time.”
Opening the outer screen, I found the heavy wooden door ajar. Once inside, I pushed it tight and tested the handle, hoping Ryan would do the same. Then I trudged to Magnolia, intent on a shower and bed. I was barely in the room when someone tapped softly.
Thinking it was Ryan, I set my face in the hard stare and cracked the door.
Ruby stood in the hall, her features looking solemn and deeply creased. She wore a gray flannel robe, pink socks, and brown slippers shaped like paws. Her hands were clasped at chest level, fingers tightly interlaced.
“I’m about to turn in.” I smiled.
She gazed at me gravely.
“I’ve had dinner,” I added.
One hand rose, as if to pluck something from the air. It trembled slightly.
“What is it, Ruby?”
“The devil assumes many forms.”
“Yes.” I wanted desperately to bathe and sleep. “But I’m sure you’re way ahead of him.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped back and the hands found each other again.
“They fly with Lucifer in the face of divinity. They blaspheme.”
“Who does?”
“They’ve grasped the keys of Hades and of death. Just like it says in Revelations.”
“Ruby, please speak to me in plain English.”
Her eyes were wide, the nodes in the corners pink and shiny with moisture.
“You’re from foreign parts so you can’t be knowing.”
“Knowing what?” Irritation curled the edges of my voice. I was not in a mood for parables.
“There’s evil here.”
The beer?
“Detective Ryan an—”
“Wicked men scoff at the Almighty.”
This was going nowhere.
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
I grasped the doorknob, but a hand flew out and clutched my arm. Calluses scratched the sleeve of my nylon jacket.
“The Lord God has sent a sign.”
She drew even closer.
“Death!”
Gently prying loose the bony fingers, I squeezed Ruby’s hand and stepped back. I watched her through the gap as the door swung shut, her small body frozen, the sausage curl crawling her skull like a dull, gray serpent.
8
THE NEXT DAY HONORED SOMEONE. CHRISTOPHER Columbus, I think. By midmorning it had turned into a nightmare.
I drove to the morgue through mist so thick it obliterated the mountains, and worked until ten-thirty. When I broke for coffee, Larke Tyrell was in the staff room. He waited while I filled a cup with industrial sludge and added white powder.
“There’s something we need to talk about.”
“Sure.”
“Not here.” He looked at me a long time. The look meant something, and I felt a prick of anxiety.
“What is it, Larke?”
“Come on.”
Taking my arm, he propelled me out the back door.
“Tempe, I don’t know how to say this.” He swirled his coffee, and iridescent clouds slid across the surface.
“Just say it.” I kept my voice low and level.
“There’s been a complaint.”
I waited.
“I feel terrible about this.” He studied his cup a few more seconds, then raised his eyes to mine. “It’s about you.”
“Me?” I was incredulous.
He nodded.
“What did I do?”
“The complaint cites unprofessional behavior of a nature sufficient to compromise the investigation.”
“Such as?”
“Entering the site without authority and mishandling evidence.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“And trespass.”
“Trespass?” A cold fist was closing around my gut.
“Did you poke around that property we talked about?”
“It wasn’t trespass. I wanted to talk to the owners.”
“Did you try to break in?”
“Of course not!”
I flashed on myself prying a shutter with a rusty bar.
“And I had authorization to enter the crash site last week.”
“Whose?”
“Earl Bliss sent me there. You know that.”
“See, here’s the problem, Tempe.” Larke rubbed a hand across his chin. “At that point DMORT hadn’t been requested.”
I was stunned.
“In what way did I mishandle evidence?”
“I hate to even ask this.” The hand went back to the chin. “Tempe—”
“Just ask.”
“Did you pick up remains that hadn’t been logged?”
The foot.
“I told you about that.” Stay calm. “I made a judgment call.”
He said nothing.
“Had I left that foot, it would now be coyote dung. Talk to Andrew Ryan. He was there.”
“I’ll do that.”
Larke reached out and squeezed my arm.
“We’ll sort this out.”
“You’re taking this seriously?”
“I have no choice.”
“Why is that?”
“You know the press are snapping at my backside. They’re gonna jump on this like a hound with a one-eyed hare.”
“Who made this complaint?” I blinked back tears.
“I can’t tell you that.”
He dropped his hand and stared off at the mist. It was lifting now, revealing the landscape in a slow, upward peel. When he turned back, there was an odd expression on his face.
“But I will tell you that powerful people are involved.”
“The Dalai Lama? The Joint Chiefs of Staff?” Anger hardened my voice.
“Don’t be mad at me, Tempe. This investigation is big news. If problems develop, no one’s going to want to own them.”
“So I’m being set up in case a scapegoat is needed.”
“It’s nothing like that. I just have to go through proper procedures.”
I took a deep breath.
“What happens now?”
He looked straight at me and his voice softened.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“When?”
“Now.”
It was my turn to stare into the mist.
* * *
High Ridge House was deserted in the middle of the day. I left a note for Ruby, thanking her and apologizing for my abrupt departure and for my coolness the night before. Then I gathered my belongings, tossed them into my Mazda, and drove off so fast the tires threw up a gravel spray.
All the way home to Charlotte I stopped and started hard, screeching from lights then weaving from lane to lane once I reached the highway. For three hours I crawled up bumpers and rode the horn. I talked to myself, trying out words. Vile. Despicable. Vicious. Other drivers avoided my eyes and gave me lots of space.
I was irate and depressed at the same time. The injustice of an anonymous accusation. The helplessness. For a week I’d been working under brutal conditions, seeing, smelling, and feeling death. I’d dropped everything, devoted myself to the effort, then been dismissed like a servant suspected of stealing. No hearing. No opportunity for explanation. No thank-you. Pack and go.
Besides the professional humiliation, there was the personal letdown. Though we’d been friends for years, and Larke knew I was scrupulous about professional ethics, he hadn’t defended me. Larke was not a cowardly man. I had expected more of him.
The wild driving served its purpose. By the outskirts of Charlotte my cascading fury had congealed into cold resolve. I’d done nothing inappropriate and I would clear my name. I would find out what this grievance was, quash it, and finish my work. And I would confront the accuser.
My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one to hold me and
tell me I’d be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was. Ryan had told me it was none of my business. Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.
Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid coming off a tantrum. I’d accomplished nothing and felt drained. Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone messages.
Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry, calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and Ted were leaving for London?
Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.
* * *
Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy’s soccer years. The house is painted, the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no obligation to protect area real estate values. I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me of that.
A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the drive. When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”
“Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.
The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its mouth.
I circled to the front and rang. No response.
I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn’t use it. Though we’d been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an intimacy I didn’t want to imply.
But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I wanted my cat.
I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.
“Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete, surveying me from top to bottom.
I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I’d donned for the morgue at six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.
“I thought you’d be at work.”
I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I’d die of humiliation.