Fatal Voyage

by Kathy Reichs

  “But you will.”

  “But I will.”

  “Can I help?”

  “There is something you can do for me.”

  * * *

  I found Boyd curled in granola crumbs, sound asleep. At the sound of the key, he shot to his feet and barked. Realizing this was not a sneak attack, he placed one forepaw on each front seat and wagged his hips. I slid behind the wheel, and he began removing makeup from the side of my face.

  Forty minutes later I pulled up at the address Gillman had found for me. Though the residence was only ten minutes from downtown, and five minutes from my condo at Sharon Hall, it had taken that long to work through my usual Queens Road confusion.

  Charlotte’s street names reflect its schizoid personality. On the one hand the street-naming approach was simple: They found a winner and stuck with it. The city has Queens Road, Queens Road West, and Queens Road East. Sharon Road, Sharon Lane, Sharon Amity, Sharon View, and Sharon Avenue. I’ve sat at the intersection of Rea Road and Rea Road, Park Road and Park Road. There was also a biblical influence: Providence Road, Carmel Road, Sardis Road.

  On the other hand, no appellation seemed adequate for more than a few miles. Streets change names with whimsy. Tyvola becomes Fairview, then Sardis. At one point Providence Road reaches an intersection at which a hard right keeps one on Providence; going straight places one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Morehead; and going left puts one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Selwyn. The Billy Graham Parkway begets Woodlawn, then Runnymede. Wendover gives rise to Eastway.

  The Queens sisters are the most evil by far. I give visitors and newcomers one driving rule of thumb: If you get onto anything named Queens, get off. The policy has always worked for me.

  Marion Veckhoff lived in a large stone Tudor on Queens Road East. The stucco was cream, the woodwork dark, and each downstairs window was a latticework of lead and glass. A neatly trimmed hedge bordered the property, and brightly colored flowers crowded beds along the front and sides of the house. A pair of enormous magnolias all but filled the front yard.

  A lady in pearls, pumps, and a turquoise pantsuit was watering pansies along a walk bisecting the front lawn. Her skin was pale, her hair the color of ginger ale.

  With a warning to Boyd, I got out and locked the door. I shouted, but the woman seemed oblivious to my presence.

  “Mrs. Veckhoff?” I repeated as I drew close.

  She spun, spraying my feet with her hose. Her hand jerked, and the water was redirected onto the grass.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s no problem at all.” I stepped back from the water puddling the flagstone. “Are you Mrs. Veckhoff?”

  “Yes, dear. You’re Carla’s niece?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m Dr. Brennan.”

  Her eyes went slightly out of focus, as if consulting a calendar somewhere over my shoulder.

  “Did I forget an appointment?”

  “No, Mrs. Veckhoff. I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about your husband.”

  She recentered on me.

  “Pat was a state senator for sixteen years. Are you a reporter?”

  “No, I’m not. Four terms is quite an achievement.”

  “Being in public office took him away from home too much, but he loved it.”

  “Where did he travel?”

  “Raleigh, mostly.”

  “Did he ever visit Bryson City?”

  “Where’s that, dear?”

  “It’s in the mountains.”

  “Oh, Pat loved the mountains, went there whenever he could.”

  “Did you travel with your husband?”

  “Oh no, no. I have the arthritis, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though uncertain where to go with the thought.

  “Arthritis can be very painful.”

  “Yes, it surely is. And those trips were really Pat’s time with the boys. Do you mind if I finish my watering?”

  “Please.”

  I walked beside her as she moved along the pansy beds.

  “Mr. Veckhoff went to the mountains with your sons?”

  “Oh, no. Pat and I have a daughter. She’s married now. He went with his chums.” She laughed, a sound halfway between a choke and a hiccup. “He said it was to get away from his women, to put the fire back into his belly.”

  “He went to the mountains with other men?”

  “Those boys were very close, been friends since their school days. They miss Pat terribly. Kendall, too. Yes, we’re getting old. . . .” Again her voice tapered into silence.

  “Kendall?”

  “Kendall Rollins. He was the first to go. Kendall was a poet. Do you know his work?”

  I shook my head, outwardly calm. Inside my heart was thumping. The name “Rollins” was on the H&F list.

  “Kendall died of leukemia when he was fifty-five.”

  “That’s very young. When was that, ma’am?”

  “Nineteen eighty-six.”

  “Where did your husband and his friends stay in the mountains?”

  Her face tensed, and the comma of skin under her left eye jumped.

  “They had some kind of lodge. Why are you asking about all this?”

  “A plane crashed recently near Bryson City, and I’m trying to learn what I can about a nearby property. Your husband might have been one of the owners.”

  “That terrible affair with all those students?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do young people have to die? A young man was killed flying to my husband’s funeral. Forty-three years old.” Her head wagged.

  “Who was that, ma’am?”

  She looked away.

  “He was the son of one of Pat’s friends, lived in Alabama, so I’d never met him. Still, it broke my heart.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes would not meet mine.

  “Do you know the names of the others who went to the lodge?”

  She began fidgeting with the nozzle.

  “Mrs. Veckhoff?”

  “Pat never talked about those trips. I left it to him. He needed privacy, being in the public eye so much.”

  “Have you ever heard of the H&F Investment Group?”

  “No.” She remained focused on the hose, her back to me, but I could see tension in her shoulders.

  “Mrs. Veck—”

  “It’s late. I have to go inside now.”

  “I’d like to find out if your husband had an interest in that property.”

  Twisting off the spray, she dropped the hose and hurried up the walk.

  “Thanks for your time, ma’am. I’m sorry to have kept you so long.”

  She turned with the door half open, one veiny hand on the knob. From inside the house came the soft bong of Westminster chimes.

  “Pat always said I talk too much. I denied it, told him I was just the friendly type. Now I think he was probably right. But it gets lonely being by yourself.”

  The door closed, and I heard a bolt slide into place.

  It’s OK, Mrs. Veckhoff. Your answers were bullshit, but they were charming bullshit. And very informative.

  I dug a card from my purse, wrote my home address and number on it, and stuck it into the doorjamb.

  24

  IT WAS PAST EIGHT WHEN MY FIRST VISITOR ARRIVED.

  After leaving Mrs. Veckhoff, I’d bought a rotisserie chicken at the Roasting Company, then collected Birdie from my neighbor. The three of us had shared the fowl, Bird’s tail fluffing like a feather duster each time Boyd moved in his direction. I was scraping plates at the sink when I heard the knock.

  Pete stood on the back stoop, a bouquet of daisies in one hand. As I opened the door, he bowed at the waist and proffered the flowers.

  “On behalf of my canine associate.”

  “Not necessary, but appreciated.” I held open the door, and he went past me into the kitchen.

  Boyd bounded over at the sound of Pete�
�s voice, dropped snout onto front paws, rump in the air, then began cavorting around the kitchen. Pete clapped and called his name. Boyd went berserk, barking and racing in circles. Birdie bolted.

  “Stop. He’ll scratch the floor.”

  Pete took a chair at the table and Boyd moved beside him.

  “Sit.”

  Boyd stared at Pete, eyebrows dancing. Pete tapped the dog’s rump, and Boyd sat, chin upon his master’s knee. Pete began a two-handed ear scratch.

  “Got any beer?”

  “Root beer.”

  “Right. How’d you two get along?”

  “Fine.”

  I opened and placed a Hire’s in front of him.

  “When did you get back?” Pete lowered and tipped the bottle so Boyd could drink.

  “Today. How did things go in Indiana?”

  “The local arson investigators were about as sophisticated as the Bobbsey twins. But the real problem was the liability insurance adjuster representing the roofer. His client was working on a roof patch with an acetylene torch in the exact area where the fire started.”

  He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his hand and drank.

  “This asshole knew the cause and origin. We knew the cause and origin. He knew we knew it. We knew he knew we knew, but his official position was that they needed additional investigation.”

  “Will it go to court?”

  “Depends on what they offer.” He lowered the root beer again, and Boyd slurped. “But it was good to have a break from chow breath, here.”

  “You love that dog.”

  “Not as much as I love you.” He gave me his “Goofy Pete” grin.

  “Hmm.”

  “Any progress on your DMORT problems?”

  “Maybe.”

  Pete looked at his watch.

  “I want to hear all about it, but right now I’m bushed.”

  He drained the bottle and stood. Boyd shot to his feet.

  “I think I will mosey with my dog.”

  I watched them leave, Boyd dancing around Pete’s legs. When I turned, Birdie was peering in from the hall doorway, feet positioned for a quick retreat.

  “Good riddance” is what I said. Miffed is what I felt. The damn dog hadn’t looked back once.

  Birdie and I were watching The Big Sleep when the second knock sounded. I was in a T-shirt, panties, and my old flannel robe. He was in my lap.

  Ryan stood on the doorstep, face ashen in the porch light. I avoided repeating my usual opener. He’d tell me soon enough why he was in Charlotte.

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  He ignored my question.

  “Spending the evening by yourself?”

  I tipped my head. “Bacall and Bogart are in the study.”

  I opened the door, as I had for Pete, and he brushed past me into the kitchen. I smelled cigarette smoke and perspiration, and assumed he’d driven straight from Swain County.

  “Will they mind if I make it a foursome?” Though his words were light, his face told me his heart was not.

  “They’re flexible.”

  He followed me to the den, and we settled at opposite ends of the couch. I clicked off the TV.

  “Bertrand’s been ID’ed.”

  I waited.

  “Mostly dental. And some other”—his Adam’s apple rose and fell—“fragments.”

  “Petricelli?”

  He shook his head, a short, tight gesture.

  “They were seated at ground zero, so Petricelli may be vapor. What they found of Bertrand was two valleys over from the main site.” His voice was tight and shaky. “Embedded in a tree.”

  “Has Tyrell released the body?”

  “This morning. I’m escorting it to Montreal on Sunday.”

  I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, to press my cheek to his chest and stroke his hair. I didn’t move.

  “The family wants a civil ceremony, so the SQ’s organizing a funeral for Wednesday.”

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “That’s not necessary.” He kept opening and closing one hand around the other. His knuckles looked hard and white as a row of pebbles.

  “Jean was my friend, too.”

  “It’s a long trip.”

  His eyes glistened. He blinked, leaned back, and ran both hands up and down his face.

  “Would you like me to go?”

  “What about this pissing match with Tyrell?”

  I told him about the tooth fragment, held back the rest.

  “How long will the profiling take?”

  “Four or five days. So there’s no reason I have to stay here. Would you like me to go?”

  He looked at me, and a wrinkle formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “I have a feeling you will, anyway.”

  * * *

  Knowing he would spend the next two days arranging transport for Bertrand’s casket and meeting with McMahon at FBI headquarters, Ryan had booked a room at the Adams Mark Hotel near uptown. Or perhaps he had other reasons. I didn’t ask.

  The next day I researched names on the H&F list, and learned only one thing. Once outside my own lab my investigative skills are limited.

  Encouraged by my success in Bryson City, I spent a library morning with back issues of the Charlotte Observer. Though a mediocre public official, State Senator Pat Veckhoff had been a model citizen. Otherwise, I discovered zilch.

  The Internet produced a few references to the poetry of Kendall Rollins, the poet Mrs. Veckhoff had mentioned. That was it. Davis. Payne. Birkby. Warren. They were common names, leading into labyrinths of useless information. The Charlotte White Pages listed dozens of each.

  That evening, I took Ryan to dinner at the Selwyn Pub. He seemed withdrawn and preoccupied. I didn’t push.

  Sunday afternoon Birdie went to Pete, and Ryan and I flew to Montreal. What remained of Jean Bertrand traveled below in a glossy metal casket.

  We were met at Dorval Airport by a funeral director, two hearse attendants, and four uniformed officers of the Sûreté du Québec. Together we escorted the body into town.

  October can be glorious in Montreal, with church spires and skyscrapers piercing a crisp, blue sky, the mountain burning brightly in the background. Or it can be gray and cheerless, with rain, sleet, or even snow.

  This Sunday the temperature flirted with freezing, and dark, heavy clouds hung over the city. Trees looked stark and black, lawns and parkways frosted white. Burlap-wrapped shrubs stood guard outside homes and businesses, floral mummies bundled against the cold.

  It was past seven by the time we delivered Bertrand to an Urgel Bourgie in St-Lambert. Ryan and I parted ways, he being taken to his condo at Habitat, I to mine in Centre-ville.

  Arriving, I threw my overnighter on the bed, turned on the heat, checked my answering machine, and then the refrigerator. The former was full, flashing like a blue light at a Kmart special. The latter was empty, stark white walls and smeared glass shelves.

  LaManche. Isabelle. Four telemarketers. A McGill graduate student. LaManche.

  Digging a jacket and gloves from the hall closet, I walked to Le Faubourg for provisions.

  By the time I returned, the condo had warmed. I built a fire anyway, needing its comfort more than its heat. I was feeling as down as I had at Sharon Hall, haunted by the specter of Ryan’s mysterious Danielle, saddened by the prospect of Bertrand’s funeral.

  As I stir-fried scallops and green beans, sleet began ticking against the windows. I ate at the hearth, thinking of the man I’d come to bury.

  The detective and I had worked together over the years, when murder victims caused our paths to cross, and I’d come to understand certain things about him. Incapable of deviousness, he’d seen the world in black and white, with cops on one side of a moral line, criminals on the other. He’d had faith in the system, never doubting it would sort the good guys from the bad.

  Bertrand had visited me here the previous spring, devastat
ed by an incomprehensible break with Ryan. I pictured him sitting on my couch that night, wretched with anger and disbelief, not knowing what to say or do, the same feelings now overpowering Andrew Ryan.

  After dinner, I loaded the dishwasher, stoked the fire, then took the handset to the sofa. Mentally switching to French, I dialed LaManche’s home number.

  My boss said he was glad I’d come to Montreal, even though the circumstances were so sad. There were two anthropology cases at the lab.

  “Last week a woman was found, nude and decomposed, wrapped in a blanket in Parc Nicholas-Veil.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The far northern edge of the city.”

  “CUM?”

  The Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police, or Montreal Urban Community Police, have jurisdiction over everything on the island of Montreal.

  “Oui. Sergent-détective Luc Claudel.”

  Claudel. The highly regarded bulldog of a detective who would grudgingly work with me, but remained unconvinced that female forensic anthropologists were helpful to law enforcement. Just what I needed.

  “Has she been ID’ed?”

  “There is a presumptive identification, and a man has been arrested. The suspect is claiming she fell, but Monsieur Claudel is suspicious. I would like you to examine the cranial trauma.” LaManche’s French, always so proper.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  The second case was less urgent. A small plane had crashed two years earlier near Chicoutimi, the copilot never found. A segment of diaphysis had recently washed up in that vicinity. Could I determine if the bone was human? I assured him I could.

  LaManche thanked me, asked about the Air TransSouth recovery, and expressed sorrow over Bertrand’s death. He did not inquire about my problems with the authorities. Surely the news would have reached him, but he was too discreet to raise a painful subject.

  The telemarketers I ignored.

  The graduate student had long since obtained the needed reference.

  My friend Isabelle had hosted one of her soirees the previous Saturday. I apologized for missing her call, and her dinner party. She assured me there would be another soon.

  I had just replaced the handset when my cell phone rang. I sprinted across the room and dug it out, once again vowing to find a better storage location than my purse. It took a moment for the voice to register.