Fatal Voyage tb-4

by Reichs, Kathy

  While I am awed by the beauty of foaming rivers, cascading falls, and towering trees, my allegiance has always been to the sea. I prefer ecozones where shorts and sundresses suffice, and only one layer is needed. Give me a swimsuit catalog and forget Eddie Bauer. All things considered, I'd rather be at the beach.

  These thoughts drifted through my mind as I circled the debris field. The day was clear but breezy, the smell of decay less apparent. Though victim recovery was well along, and fewer bodies littered the ground, the big picture looked relatively unchanged. Bio-suited figures still wandered about and crawled through the wreckage, though some now wore caps marked FBI.

  I found Larke's opening and cut into the woods. Though the high-altitude sunlight was warm, the temperature dropped appreciably when I moved into shadow. I followed the trail I'd taken the week before, now and then stopping to listen. Branches tapped and scraped, and dead leaves tumbled across the ground with soft ticking sounds. Overhead, a woodpecker drummed a staccato tattoo, paused, repeated itself.

  I was wearing a bright yellow jacket, wanting to surprise no one, and hoping the Tommy Hilfiger colors would suggest avoidance to the coyote mind. If not, I'd zap the furry buggers. Inside my pocket I clutched a small can of Mace.

  At the fallen sourwood, I dropped to one knee and scanned the forest floor. Then I rose and looked around. Other than my Louisville Slugger branch, there was no hint of my canid adventure.

  I continued along the subtle passageway. The ground was slightly concave, and I had to take care not to turn an ankle on a rock hidden beneath leaves. Though lower than the surrounding scrub, the vegetation at times rose almost to my knees.

  I kept my eyes roving, watching for critters or signs of interment. Larke's house meant human settlement, and I knew that old farmsteads often included family burials. One summer I'd directed a dig at the top of Chimney Rock. Intending to excavate only the cabin, we'd uncovered a tiny graveyard, unlisted on any document. Also timber rattlers and water moccasins, I suddenly remembered.

  I pressed on through cool, dark shade, thorns and twigs tugging my clothes and insects dive-bombing my face. Gusts sent shadows dancing, changing shape around me. Then, without warning, the trees gave way to a small clearing. As I emerged into sunlight a white-tailed deer raised its head, stared, then disappeared.

  Ahead sat a house, its back snugged to a sheer rock cliff that rose straight up for several hundred feet. The structure had a thick-walled foundation, dormer windows, and a sloping roof with wide eaves. A covered porch hid the front, and an odd stone wall peeked from behind the left side.

  I waved. Waited. Called out. Waved again.

  No challenging voice or bark. Nor any sound of welcome.

  I shouted again, hoping a Deliverance redneck did not have me in his crosshairs.

  Silence.

  Banjos dueling in my head, I started across the meadow. Though it was blindingly bright away from the trees, I left my sunglasses in my pocket. In addition to your run-of-the-mill holler rustics, these mountains sheltered white-supremacist, paramilitary types. Strangers were not encouraged to visit.

  I could see that the grounds largely had been taken back by nature. What had once been lawn or garden was now overgrown with stunted white alder, sourwood, Carolina silverbell, and numerous shrubs I didn't recognize. Beyond the bushes, big-tooth aspen, Fraser magnolia, poplar, maple, oak, beech, and Eastern white pine mixed with unfamiliar trees. Kudzu draped everything in tangled webs of green.

  As I walked to the front steps, goose bumps spread along my arms and a sense of uneasiness wrapped around me like a cold, wet shawl. A feeling of menace hung over the place. Was it born of the dark, weathered wood, the blind, boarded windows, or the jungle of vegetation that kept the dwelling in perpetual gloom?

  “Hello?” My heartbeat quickened.

  Still no dogs or mountain men.

  One look told me the house had not been thrown up quickly. Or recently. The construction was as solid as London's Newgate prison. Though I doubted George Dance drew the plans, this designer shared the prison architect's distrust of portals on to the world. There were no expanses of glass to maximize the mountain view. No skylights. No widow's walks. Constructed of rock and thick, unstained planking, the place had clearly been built for function. I couldn't tell if it had last been visited at the end of the summer or at the end of the Great Depression.

  Or if someone was inside now, watching my movements through a crack or gun hole.

  “Is anyone home?”

  Nothing.

  I climbed to the porch and knocked.

  “Hello?”

  No sounds of movement.

  Sidestepping to a window, I brought my eyes close to the shutters. Heavy, dark material hid the interior. I twisted and turned my head, angling for a view, until the feathery brush of a spider sent me jumping backward.

  I descended the steps, circled the house on an overgrown flagstone path, and stepped through an arch into a gloomy little courtyard. The enclosure was surrounded by eight-foot stone walls overhung by lilac bushes, their leaves dark against the greens and yellows of the forest beyond. Except for moss, nothing grew on the hard-packed, moist ground. The dank little quadrangle seemed completely incapable of sustaining life.

  I turned my gaze back to the house. A crow circled and settled on a nearby branch, a small black silhouette against brilliant blue. The bird cawed twice, clicked its beak, then lowered its head in my direction.

  “Tell the mistress I stopped by,” I said with more self-assurance than I felt.

  The crow regarded me briefly, then flapped into the air.

  Turning, I caught a flicker, like sunlight glinting off broken glass. I froze. Had I seen movement in an upstairs window? I waited a full minute. Nothing stirred.

  The yard had only one entrance, so I retraced my steps and surveyed the far side of the property. Brush filled the space between forest and house, ending in a jungle of dead hollyhocks crowding the foundation. I walked the area, but saw no evidence of burials, disturbed or intact. My only discovery was a broken metal bar.

  Frustrated, I returned to the front porch, inserted the bar between the shutters, and pried gently. There was no give. I applied more pressure, curious, but not wanting to cause damage. The wood was solid and would not budge.

  I looked at my watch. Two forty-five. This was useless. And stupid, if the property wasn't abandoned. If proprietors existed, they were away, or wanted it to seem so. I was tired, sweaty, and itchy from thousands of tiny scratches.

  And I had to admit, the place creeped me out. Though I knew my reaction was irrational, I felt a sense of evil pervading the grounds. Deciding to make inquiries in town, I dropped the bar and headed back to the crash site.

  Driving toward the morgue, I pondered the mysterious lodge. Who had built it? Why? What was it about the place that made me so uneasy?

  RYAN WAS LYING IN WAIT WHEN I ARRIVED AT HIGH RIDGE House shortly after nine. I didn't see him until he spoke.

  “Looks like we've got an explosion.”

  I paused, one hand on the screen door handle.

  “Not now, Ryan.”

  “Jackson's going to make a statement tomorrow.”

  I turned in the direction of the porch swing. Ryan had one heel on the banister and was pushing himself slowly back and forth. When he drew on his cigarette, a tiny red glow lighted his face.

  “It's certain?”

  “As Madonna's lost virginity.”

  I hesitated, wanting news of the investigation, but wary of the bearer.

  “It's been a sincerely fucked-up day, Brennan. I apologize for any misbehavior.”

  Though I'd had little time to dwell on it, the noontime confrontation had led me to a decision. I was ending the circle of disaster that had been my relationship with Ryan. From now on our interactions would be strictly professional.

  “Tell me.”

  Ryan patted the swing.

  I crossed to him but remained standing.
/>   “Why an explosion?”

  “Sit.”

  “If this is a come-on, you can—”

  “There's cratering and fiber penetration.”

  In the half-light of the overhead bulb Ryan's face looked drained of life. He inhaled deeply, then flicked his butt into Ruby's ferns. I watched sparks comet through the dark, imagining the plunge of Air TransSouth 228.

  “Do you want to hear this?”

  Placing my pack between us, I dropped onto the swing.

  “What's cratering?”

  “Cratering is caused when a solid or liquid is suddenly converted to a gas.”

  “As in a detonation.”

  “Yes. An explosion rockets the temperature thousands of degrees and sends out shock waves that create a gas wash effect on metal surfaces. That's how the explosives group experts described it. They showed slides at today's briefing. It looks kind of like an orange peel.”

  “They're finding cratering?”

  “They've spotted it on fragments. Rolled edges, too, which is another indicator.”

  He gave the swing a gentle push.

  “What's fiber penetration?”

  “They're seeing the fibers of some materials driven through other, undamaged materials. All under high-powered microscopes, of course. They're also finding heat fractures and flash melting at the ends of some fibers.”

  Another oscillation, and I tasted the Greek salad I'd wolfed down after leaving the morgue.

  “Don't rock the swing.”

  “Some of the blow-up photos are amazing.”

  I zipped my jacket and tucked my hands into the pockets. Though the days were still warm, the nights were growing crisp.

  “So cratering and rolled edges on metal, and flash melting and penetration of fibers mean an explosion. Our lower leg injuries fit with that.”

  “So does the fact that a large part of the fuselage landed intact.”

  I planted a foot to stop our forward motion.

  “It all adds up to an explosion.”

  “Caused by?”

  “Bomb. Missile. Mechanical failure. The FAA's Aviation Explosives Security Unit will conduct chromatographic analysis to determine what chemicals might be present, and radiophotography and X-ray diffraction to identify molecular species. And one other. Oh, yeah. Infrared spectrophotometry. Not sure what that one's for, but it has a nice ring. That is, if they can arm-wrestle the job away from the FBI crime lab.”

  “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 north-east 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 sixpack 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 pre
achers 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.