I’d just finished talking with Rankin when Peggy transferred another call to me. “Hello,” came a hesitant female voice. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Brockton.”
“This is Dr. Brockton. How can I help you?”
“My name is Laura Telford,” she said. “I’m calling because my father recently signed a form to donate his body to the Body Farm, and I need to talk to you about it.”
Occasionally — not often, but once every few years — I’d get a phone call or a visit from a donor’s family member who was upset by the idea of Mom or Dad or a brother or sister rotting on the ground. Our one-paragraph donation form was legally valid — in a court battle over a body, we’d probably win, if the form was properly signed and witnessed — but at what price, in terms of a family member’s peace of mind or goodwill? No, I’d long since decided I would never get into a tug-of-war about a donor’s body. “I won’t try to change your mind, Laura,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to answer any questions I can. I’d encourage you to talk with your father about it again. Let him know you feel uncomfortable about the idea. Maybe one of you will change the other one’s mind.”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable or that we disagree,” she answered. “He thinks it’s important, and so do I. I took your intro anthropology class back when I was a UT student. I even went out to the Body Farm on the spring-cleanup day. I got ten points of extra credit for picking up bones and slimy body bags. I believe in the work you do.”
I was puzzled about why she was calling. “Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “I hope we won’t be seeing your dad for a while yet.”
“Actually, I’m afraid you’ll be seeing him really soon,” she replied. “He’s dying of heart failure. His heart stopped yesterday, and they managed to get it going again, but they say it could stop again at any moment. If it stops again, that’s probably the end for him.”
“I’m so sorry, Laura.”
She paused to blow her nose. “But it helps to think his body could do some good after death.”
“If it comes to the Body Farm, it certainly will,” I promised. “Did you say your last name’s Telford? That’s not ringing a bell. How long ago did he send in the donation form?”
“He handed it to you. Last week. My father’s Ernest Miller. Sorry, I should have told you that sooner. I changed my name when I got married. You spoke to Daddy in his hospital room, and he signed the form right then.”
“Of course,” I said. “He mentioned you. He said you’d be here soon. I believe he said you live in Kentucky?”
“Yes, at Fort Campbell. I’d hoped to come right after Daddy was admitted, but my husband’s stationed in Iraq and he can’t get home until next week. My dad has really spiraled down fast, so I figured I should call you as soon as possible. I need to talk to you about a change to his donation paperwork.”
“Of course,” I said, “but I’m a little confused. I thought you said you were comfortable with the idea that he’d come to the Body Farm.”
“I am.”
“Then what’s the change you’d like to discuss with me?”
“Organ donation,” she said, and I felt my breath catch at the sound of the words. “He and I talked about it on the phone Saturday, the day before his heart stopped. He told me about your friend, Dr. Garcia. About how he needs a pair of hands.”
The hairs on my arms and my neck were standing up. “Are you saying your dad changed his mind? That he signed the organ-donor consent form?”
“No, he didn’t,” she said, and I felt something in me collapse.
“Oh. I see. I mean, I don’t see, really.” I drew a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have brought up Dr. Garcia. I was wrong to try to influence your father. It’s his choice, after all.”
“Actually, it’s not,” she said. “That’s why I’m calling you. My dad has given me medical power of attorney, so it’s my choice now, and my choice isn’t the same as my dad’s. My husband’s mom died while waiting for a kidney transplant, Dr. Brockton. My children lost a grandmother, for the simple reason that there aren’t enough organ donors out there. So if I can make a difference in someone’s life by overruling my father’s fear, I’m at peace with that decision. I won’t tell him; I’ll let him die in peace, and then I’ll do what I think is best.” She paused, and the pause created a space in which my hopes soared. “Do you think your friend could use my father’s hands?”
I didn’t know, but I hoped and prayed he could. “Let’s find out,” I said. “And thank you.”
CHAPTER 40
I was still elated by Laura Telford’s offer and Eddie’s good news when I arrived on campus. But the moment I opened my office door, I knew that something was wrong.
At the center of my desk lay a large white envelope, precisely centered in a circle of light cast by the desk lamp. The lamp’s long, hinged arm had been angled downward, close to the desk; the circular fluorescent tube spotlighted the envelope, and the round magnifying lens — through which I’d scrutinized thousands of bones — enlarged and distorted the hand-printed letters of my name.
My foreboding turned to horror as I tugged the contents from the tight confines of the envelope. It contained three things. One was a copy of the photos taken at the strip club in Las Vegas. Another was the folder where I’d filed a copy of the donor consent form from 37–09—a body I’d promised Sinclair — along with a copy of a letter I’d drafted to send to the donor’s family, explaining that a hepatitis infection in the body had made it necessary to cremate his remains. I’d attached a copy of the donor form, on which I’d written “biohazardous due to hepatitis C; incinerated and ashes disposed of 4/8.” It was a lie, of course, one I was supposedly spinning to cover my tracks. I’d sent a copy of the draft to Sinclair, asking for his experienced guidance on such matters.
The third item was a brief letter, printed on Anthropology Department stationery. It was dated the previous day and addressed to Dr. William Brockton, Head, Anthropology Department, University of Tennessee — Knoxville. The body of the letter was brief — as brief as a gunshot to the head. “This letter is to inform you that I hereby resign my assistantship, effective immediately, and withdraw from the graduate program in Anthropology. Furthermore, be advised that I have contacted the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to report what I believe to be theft, fraud, or embezzlement in your diversion of donated bodies for personal gain. Alas — how swift the tumble from greatness.” It was signed, in neat, careful blue script, “Miranda S. Lovelady.”
CHAPTER 41
Crossing the Tennessee river on Alcoa highway, I stayed in the right-hand lane, the exit-only lane for Cherokee Trail and UT Hospital, and put on my turn signal as the exit ramp loomed. I’d tried to reach both Rankin and Price, but neither was available, and the receptionist at the FBI office had either not known or not been authorized to say when either would be available. I’d left urgent messages for both agents, everywhere I could think to leave them — with the receptionist, on their office voice mails, and on their cell phones. I’d also left a voice mail for Amanda Whiting, UT’s general counsel, warning her that the TBI might be about to swoop down on me and complicate life for the university.
When I fled the stadium, I’d intended to swing by the Body Farm and distract myself by checking on Maurie Gershwin, who I expected was almost down to bare bones by now. But the Body Farm was part of what was weighing on me — for the first time ever, it seemed to fall under the heading of “problem” rather than “solution.” On impulse I changed course. The sun was out and the April afternoon was shirtsleeve warm; winter finally seemed to be packing up for good, and I decided a dose of pure mountain air might clear my head or ease my heart. Flipping the turn signal from “right” to “left,” I moved into the center lane, earning a loud honk from a Subaru station wagon, which had been rocketing along in that lane more swiftly than I’d realized. As the Subaru whipped around me, propelled by turbocharged rage, I glimpsed a protest rally’s worth of bumper stickers on the rear
hatch, including MAKE LOVE NOT WAR, MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, and BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT IN THE WORLD. Then the car hurtled out of sight around the curve, the driver extending his middle finger high into the air above the roofline of the peacemobile.
I took the highway south, past the airport, then angled east through Maryville and Townsend to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which was forty-five minutes from Knoxville but a world away. A mile inside the park, I turned left at the road that led to the educational camp at Tremont, where virtually every kid in East Tennessee, including my now-grown son, spent a week of middle school learning about the flora and fauna of the Appalachians. The road to Tremont meandered up the Middle Prong of the Little Tennessee, a free-flowing river whose emerald pools were strung together with strands of white, tumbling rapids. At its low, the Middle Prong could be crossed in numerous places by the adventurous rock hopper; at its high-water mark, it could test the skill of serious kayakers, or drown those foolhardy enough to take to the torrent in inner tubes.
On this soft afternoon, the Middle Prong seemed to embody the idea of the Golden Mean: enough water to be lively — exuberant, even — but not so much as to seem menacing or ominous. Heartened by the river, I felt my own current moderating, settling into the mid-range of its spiritual channel. I slowed the truck, rolled down the windows, and took in the sounds and smells of the Smokies: the gurgling, seething water; the bracing tang of hemlock needles and, underneath their aroma, the rich dankness of mossy rocks and moldering leaves.
Two miles upriver from the turnoff, the asphalt gave way to gravel and the river tumbled more than it flowed. Then — after another three miles — the road ended at a looping turnaround area; beyond it a footbridge crossed the river to a trail that continued upstream. A dozen or so parking spaces were notched into the trees lining the loop’s outer rim. On weekends the spaces would all be claimed, but today I had complete choice. I parked near the footbridge and walked to the midpoint of the steel span; twenty feet below me, the river churned swift and cold and clean. Ten miles downriver these waters would get dammed and dreary, but here they danced and sang.
On the far side of the footbridge, a wooden sign announced the mileage to various points up the Middle Prong Trail, the letters and numbers carved into the dark wood by a router and painted white: PANTHER CREEK, 2.3; JAKES CREEK, 4.6; APPALACHIAN TRAIL, 8; CUCUMBER GAP, 8.5. As I contemplated these destinations, none of which I had the time or the footwear to reach, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel, then the brief beep of a vehicle being locked by a remote key. The electronic beep startled and jarred me, so to dodge trailside small talk with the new arrival, I set out. A small, unmarked trail branched off to the right of the main trail, and I decided to follow that one, rather than the Middle Prong Trail, which was wide enough for a jeep and throngs of hikers. The road less traveled, I thought, ducking beneath hemlock branches and clambering over a pair of fallen trees.
A hundred yards up the path, I came to another footbridge, a makeshift one this time. Less than two feet wide, this bridge was made from a steel girder laid across the stream on its side; vertical posts had been welded to it, and steel cables threaded the posts to form flimsy hand railings. Gingerly I stepped onto the span. The girder flexed beneath my weight, bouncing slightly with each step. I paused near the center, gripping an upright with one hand and a cable with the other. Ten feet below, a small stream whose name I didn’t know — the Left Prong? the South Prong? Frothy Creek? — hurled itself from boulder to boulder. Upstream it came rushing at me from a tunnel of dark, glossy rhododendron, leaping off a four-foot ledge before careening back and forth between the rocks.
I was just turning to look downriver when three things happened at the same instant: A brief flash lit the shadowy lacework of a hemlock sapling on the near bank; the air ripped and zinged beside my left ear; and a sharp crack reverberated within the narrow gorge of the stream. By the time my brain realized that I’d just been shot at, my body had already begun reacting instinctively, ducking and darting across the swaying I-beam toward the far side of the stream. The crack of another shot mingled with the clang of a bullet slamming into the steel bridge. As I reached the far bank, a third shot chipped the rocky embankment beside my head, sending shards of stone into my face and neck.
Jesus, I thought, the TBI’s shooting at me. Then I thought, No, that can’t be. I’m a TBI consultant. I’ve worked with them for years. They might want to arrest me — they surely want to question me — but they can’t possibly want to kill me.
But someone obviously did. Sinclair, I thought, but then, How can it be Sinclair? The FBI arrested him yesterday. A fourth shot whanged into the rocks. I guess he got out, I decided. I ran, chased by a fifth shot.
I couldn’t have said how far I ran; all I knew was that I ran, up and up the twisting trail, until I stopped to vomit from the exertion. My gasping breath was interrupted by the heaves of my stomach — heaves that left me gasping even harder for air. The edges of my vision began to go black, and I dropped to my hands and knees, fighting to control my panic and desperate breath. Once my heaves dried up and my breath slowed down, I took stock of my situation, and I didn’t like what I saw. Somewhere below me was a person who had a gun and a wish to kill me, so heading back down the trail didn’t seem to be the path of wisdom. I recalled two other trails in this section of the park — the West Prong Trail, which began at the point where Tremont Road turned from pavement to gravel, and Bote Mountain Trail, which the West Prong Trail hit at a T junction. It seemed possible, or even likely, that this trail would intersect one of those two trails and lead me safely to the road.
I stood and continued up the trail, shakily at first, then with more strength and confidence. Judging by the direction of the sun, I was heading southwest — the general direction of the Bote Mountain Trail, if my memory was correct. But judging by the angle of the sun, I didn’t have much daylight left in which to find it. I checked my watch: It was four-thirty, and that meant I had an hour, maybe ninety minutes, before darkness would catch me in the mountains.
I hiked for half an hour, hoping to hit the intersection with the Bote Mountain Trail. As the trail continued to climb, the sun continued to drop; so did the temperature, and gradually my breath began to fog. Soon the trail snaked up a shaded slope through a patch of snow and ice — not a good sign. Off slightly to my right, perhaps ten miles away and thousands of feet below, I caught a glimpse of Cades Cove, a bowl in the mountains that had been settled and cleared in the early 1800s. Seeing Cades Cove gave me a better fix on my location, but the knowledge was unsettling. The trail, I realized with a sinking feeling, was taking me up to the crest of the mountains — probably up Thunderhead Mountain, the highest peak in the western part of the Smokies. The clothes I was wearing were fine for a warm afternoon in the sun, but not for a night on Thunderhead at five thousand feet.
Would anyone come looking for me — anyone besides Ray Sinclair? Nobody from the Anthropology Department, surely. Miranda had resigned. No one else would have given a thought to my early departure, and no one else would expect to see me before Monday. My one hope — the one silver lining to being suspected of committing fraud and theft — was that the TBI might somehow follow my trail to the mountains. But how? I’d told no one where I was heading, and I doubted that the TBI considered me worthy of an urgent manhunt.
I had two other options, as I saw it. One was to backtrack, hoping that whoever had been shooting at me had given up and gone away. The other was to bushwhack: to cut directly down the mountainside, then follow the small stream I could hear churning far below. I felt certain that the stream fed into the West Prong of the Little Tennessee River; I could even, in my mind’s eye, picture the very bridge where the West Prong flowed beneath the highway. I decided to bushwhack. Veering off the trail, I began scrambling — half running, half falling — down the mountainside. But could I reach the highway by dark?
I could not. Twilight caught me at the confluence where the small stream jo
ined the West Prong. The river gorge had darkened sooner and faster than the higher slopes, and the terrain was steeper and rockier along the water. My side of the river, the south bank, appeared rugged as far as I could see, with stone bluffs and thickets of rhododendron. The north bank looked more passable, but getting to it would require crossing the river. I scanned the stream for a narrows where I might be able to rock-hop across, but I didn’t see one, and I was running out of time to search. Sitting down on a boulder at the water’s edge, I shucked off my shoes, socks, pants, and underwear, then waded in, clutching my rolled-up clothes above my head and wearing my shoes draped around my neck by the laces, like a primitive tribal token of victory over some L.L. Bean — shod academic rival.
The water was cold — gaspingly, achingly cold, so cold that my feet felt as if they’d been clamped in a vise. Within seconds, though, the pain gave way to numbness, which was better but also worse, making it difficult to feel the slippery rocks underfoot. Twice I nearly fell, when my numbed feet stumbled; both times I nearly lost my grip on my precious bundle of clothes. The water was deeper than I’d expected, too. It knifed its way above my knees and up my thighs. “Ow, crap,” I said as the cold stabbed at my crotch.
By the time I reached the other side — probably only a minute or so — I was shuddering. Sitting on a chilly rock, I used my hands to squeegee the water down my legs, then rubbed my feet briskly with my socks to dry them and to restore circulation and feeling. I dressed as quickly as my shaking hands and quaking limbs allowed, then set off downstream.
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