Fatal Voyage

by Kathy Reichs

  “Anne?”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Finalizing world peace. I just got off the phone with Kofi Annan.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Montreal.”

  “Why the hell are you back in Canada?”

  I told her about Bertrand.

  “Is that why you sound so bummed?”

  “Partly. Are you in Charlotte? How was London?”

  “What does that mean? Partly?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Of course I do. What’s wrong?”

  I unloaded. My friend listened. Twenty minutes later I took a breath, not weeping but close.

  “So the Arthur property and unidentified foot issue are separate from the crash complaint issue?”

  “Sort of. I don’t think the foot came from anyone on the flight. I have to prove that.”

  “You think it’s this Mitchell character who’s been missing since February?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the NTSB still doesn’t know what took that plane out?”

  “No.”

  “And all you know about this property is that some guy named Livingstone gave it as a wedding gift to some guy named Arthur who sold it to some guy named Dashwood.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But the deed is in the name of an investment group, not Dashwood.”

  “H&F. In Delaware.”

  “And some of the officers’ names match up to the names of people who died right before local seniors went missing.”

  “You’re good.”

  “I took notes.”

  “Sounds ridiculous.”

  “Yes. And you have no idea why Davenport is on a tear for you?”

  “No.”

  Silence hummed across two countries.

  “We heard about some lord in England named Dashwood. A friend of Benjamin Franklin’s, I think.”

  “That should crack this wide open. How was London?”

  “Great. But too much the ABC tour.”

  “ABC tour?”

  “‘Another bloody cathedral.’ Ted likes history. He even dragged me through a bunch of caves. When will you be back in Charlotte?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Where are we going for Thanksgiving?”

  Anne and I met when we were young and pregnant, I with Katy, she with her son, Brad. That first summer we’d all packed up and taken the babies to the ocean for a week. We’d been going to one beach or another every summer and Thanksgiving ever since.

  “The kids like Myrtle. I like Holden.”

  “I want to try Pawleys Island. Let’s have lunch. We’ll discuss it and I’ll tell you all about my trip. Tempe, things will get back to normal. You’ll see.”

  I fell asleep listening to sleet, thinking of sand and palmetto, and wondering if I had any chance at all of having a normal life again.

  * * *

  The Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale is the central medico-legal and crime laboratory for the province of Quebec. It is located on the top two floors of the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, known to locals as the Sûreté du Québec, or SQ building.

  By nine-thirty Monday morning I was in the anthropology-odontology lab, having already attended the morning staff meeting, and collected my Demande d’Expertise en Anthropologie request form from the pathologist assigned to each case. After determining that the copilot long-bone shaft actually came from the lower leg of a mule deer, I wrote a brief report and turned to Claudel’s lady.

  I arranged the bones in anatomical order on my worktable, did a skeletal inventory, then checked indicators of age, sex, race, and height for consistency with the presumed ID. This could be important, since the victim had been toothless, and dental records did not exist.

  I broke at one-thirty and ate my bagel with cream cheese, banana, and Chips Ahoy! cookies while watching boats sailing under cars driving over the Jacques Cartier Bridge far below my office window. By two I was back with the bones, and by four-thirty I had finished my analysis.

  The victim could have shattered her jaw, orbit, and cheekbone and smashed the depressed fractures into her forehead by falling. From a hot air balloon or high-rise building.

  I called Claudel and left a verbal opinion of homicide, locked up, and went home.

  I spent another night by myself, cooking and eating a chicken breast, watching a rerun of Northern Exposure, reading a few chapters of a novel by James Lee Burke. It was as though Ryan had dropped from the planet. I was asleep by eleven.

  The next day was spent documenting the battered lady: photographing my findings with regard to biological profile and photographing, diagramming, describing, and explaining the injury patterns on her skull and face. By late afternoon I’d compiled a report and left it in the secretarial office. I was removing my lab coat when Ryan appeared at my office door.

  “Need a lift to the funeral?”

  “Rough couple of days?” I asked, taking my purse from the bottom desk drawer.

  “There’s not a lot of sunshine in the squad.”

  “No,” I said, meeting his gaze.

  “I’m completely jammed up with this Petricelli thing.”

  “Yes.” My eyes never left his.

  “Turns out Metraux isn’t quite so sure about eyeballing Pepper.”

  “Because of Bertrand?”

  He shrugged.

  “These bastards will dime their own mothers for an afternoon out.”

  “Risky.”

  “As tap water in Tijuana. Do you want the ride?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight-fifteen.”

  * * *

  Since Sergent-détective Jean Bertrand had died while on duty, he was given full state honors. La Direction des Communications of the Sûreté du Québec had informed every police force in North America, using the CPIC system in Canada and the NCIC system in the United States. An honor guard flanked the casket at the funeral parlor. The body was escorted from there to the church, from the church to the cemetery.

  While I had expected a large turnout, I was astounded by the mass of people who showed up. In addition to Bertrand’s family and friends, his fellow SQ officers, members of the CUM, and many from the medico-legal lab, it looked like every police department in Canada, and many in the United States, had sent representatives. French and English media sent reporters and TV crews.

  By noon, the bits of Bertrand that passed for his corpse lay in the ground at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery, and Ryan and I were winding our way down the mountain toward Centre-ville.

  “When do you fly out?” he asked, splitting off Côtedes-Neiges onto rue St-Mathieu.

  “Eleven-fifty tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”

  “If you’re aspiring to a position as my chauffeur, the pay is lousy.”

  The joke plunged to its death before I’d finished saying it.

  “I’m on the same flight.”

  “Why?”

  “Last night the Charlotte PD busted an Atlanta lowlife named Pecan Billie Holmes.”

  He dug a pack of du Maurier’s from his pocket, tapped one out on the steering wheel, and placed it between his lips. After lighting up with one hand, he inhaled, then blew smoke through both nostrils. I lowered my window.

  “Seems the Pecan had a lot to say about a certain telephone tip to the FBI.”

  25

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS FELT LIKE A PLUNGE ON THE MIND Eraser at Six Flags. After weeks of the slow climb, suddenly everything broke. But there was nothing amusing about the ride.

  It was late afternoon when Ryan and I touched down in Charlotte. In our absence, fall had caught on, and a strong breeze flapped our jackets as we walked to the parking garage.

  We drove directly downtown to the FBI office at Second and Tryon. McMahon had just returned from interviewing Pecan Billie Holmes at the jail.

  “Holmes was c
oked to the eyeballs when they hauled his butt to the bag last night, yelling and screaming, offering to roll over on everything back to a Little League game his team threw in the fourth grade.”

  “Who is this guy?” Ryan.

  “A thirty-eight-year-old three-time loser. Hangs on the fringes of the Atlanta biker scene.”

  “Hells Angels?”

  McMahon nodded.

  “He’s not a full patcher, doesn’t have the brains of a banana Popsicle. The club tolerates him as long as he’s useful.”

  “What was Holmes doing in Charlotte?”

  “Probably here for a Rotary luncheon,” McMahon said.

  “Does Holmes really know who phoned in the bomb tip?” I asked.

  “At four A.M. he had an inside track. That’s why the arresting officers phoned us. By the time I got there, a night’s sleep had dulled the Pecan’s enthusiasm for sharing.”

  McMahon lifted a mug from his desk, swirled and examined the contents as one might a stool sample.

  “Fortunately, at the time of his arrest the scumbag was on probation for bouncing rubber all over Atlanta. We were able to persuade him that full disclosure was in his own best interest.”

  “And?”

  “Holmes swears he was present when the scheme was hatched.”

  “Where?”

  “The Claremont Lounge in midtown Atlanta. That’s about six blocks from the pay phone where the call was made.”

  McMahon set down the mug.

  “Holmes says he was drinking and snorting blow with a couple of Angels named Harvey Poteet and Neal Tannahill. The boys were talking about Pepper Petricelli and the crash when Poteet decided it would be cool to diddle the FBI with a false lead.”

  “Why?”

  “Barstool brilliance. If Petricelli was alive, it would scare him into silence. If he’d gone down with the plane, a message would go out. Talk and the brothers erase you from the planet. A freebie.”

  “Why would these assholes talk business in front of an outsider?”

  “Poteet and Tannahill were doing lines in Holmes’s car. Our hero was out cold in the backseat. Or so they thought.”

  “So the whole thing was a hoax,” I said.

  “Appears so.” McMahon moved the mug beyond the edge of the blotter.

  “Metraux’s backing off on his Petricelli sighting,” Ryan added.

  “There’s a surprise.”

  Down the hall a phone rang. A voice called out. Heels clicked down the corridor.

  “Looks like your partner and his prisoner just got on the wrong flight.”

  “So the Sri Lankans are clean, Simington is up for Humanitarian of the Year, and the Angels are nothing but merry pranksters. We’re back to square one with a blown plane and no explanation.” Ryan.

  “I got a call from Magnus Jackson as I was leaving Bryson City. He claims his investigators are picking up evidence of slow burning.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I asked.

  “Geometric burn patterns on debris.”

  “Which means?”

  “Fire prior to the explosion.”

  “A mechanical problem?”

  McMahon shrugged.

  “They can separate precrash from postcrash burning?” I pushed.

  “Sounds like crap to me.”

  McMahon grabbed the mug and got out of his chair.

  “So the Pecan may be a hero.”

  Ryan and I stood.

  “And Metraux’s not finding a seller’s market,” said Ryan.

  “Ain’t life grand.”

  * * *

  I hadn’t told Ryan about Parker Davenport’s insinuations concerning himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

  “That rat-brained little prick.” Headlights moved across his face, distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.

  “This should dampen that line of reasoning.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure Davenport’s reaming me has nothing to do with you or Bertrand. That was a sidebar to his real agenda.”

  “Which is?”

  “I have every intention of finding out.”

  Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  “Powerful people.”

  His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took my hand.

  “Sure I can’t buy you dinner?”

  “I need to collect my cat.”

  Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” I said.

  He slammed the door and was gone.

  * * *

  Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.

  Anne.

  Ron Gillman.

  Two hang-ups.

  I dialed Gillman’s pager. He phoned back before I’d filled Birdie’s bowls.

  “Krueger says you’ve got a match on the DNA.”

  My stomach and tonsils changed places.

  “He’s sure?”

  “One chance in seventy godzillion of error. Or whatever figures those guys throw around.”

  “The tooth and foot come from the same person?” I still couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes. Go get your warrant.”

  I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find her.

  There was no answer in Ryan’s room.

  Anne picked up on the first ring.

  “Figure out who your bomber is?”

  “We figured out who it isn’t.”

  “That’s progress. How about dinner?”

  “Where’s Ted?”

  “At a sales meeting in Orlando.”

  My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.

  “Foster’s in thirty minutes?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Foster’s Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling and tufted black leather rising to midwall. A carved bar wraps around one end, battered tables fill the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn Avenue Pub, the tavern is small, dark, and flawlessly Irish.

  Anne had the Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I’d have gone for a black and tan, but Anne always had Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime. Normally I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.

  “So who’s been ruled out?” Anne asked, fingertipping a speck from her wine.

  “I can’t really discuss that, but there’s other progress I can tell you about.”

  “You’ve figured out the early temperature history of the solar system.”

  She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I remembered.

  “That was last week. Did you lighten your hair?”

  “A mistake. What’s this progress?”

  I told her about the DNA hit.

  “So your foot belongs to whoever went soupy inside the wall.”

  “And it wasn’t any jive deer.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I’ll bet the farm it was Jeremiah Mitchell.”

  “The black Cherokee.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now what?”

  “I’m waiting for a call from the Swain County sheriff. With the DNA match, a warrant should be a piece of cake. Even from that medieval moron of a magistrate.”

  “Nice alliteration.”

  “Thanks.”

  Over dinner, we decided on Wild Dunes at Thanksgiving. The rest of the time Anne described her trip to England. I listened.

  “Did you see anything besides cathedrals and monuments?” I asked when she paused for breath.

  “Caves.”

  “Caves?”

  “Totally bizarre. This guy named Francis Dashwood had them dug sometime in the eighteenth century. He wanted a Gothic atmosphere, so he had this corny thr
ee-sided stone structure built around the entrance. Cathedral windows, doors, and arches, a stone-bordered portal in the center, and a black wrought-iron fence at each side. Creates a sort of courtyard. Gothic chic, complete with souvenir shop, café, and white plastic tables and chairs for the thirsty medieval tourist.”

  She took a sip of wine.

  “You enter the caves through a long white tunnel with a low, rounded ceiling.”

  “Why white?”

  “It’s all fake. The caves were chiseled out of chalk.”

  “Where are they?”

  “West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. It’s about an hour’s drive northwest of London. Someone told Ted about the place, so we had to stop off on our way to Oxford.” She rolled her eyes. “Tempe, these caves are mondo bizarro. Passages meander all over the place, with little rooms and crannies and side branches. And they’re filled with all sorts of creepy carvings.”

  “Creepy?”

  “Most of the engravings look like the work of kids, but they’re way too grotesque.”

  “Like what?”

  “A face with a cross gouged into its forehead, another wearing a sorcerer’s hat, the mouth and eyes perfect O’s.”

  She gave what she must have considered a ghostly grimace.

  “Tunnels split, then rejoin, then change direction for no reason. There’s a Banqueting Hall and a River Styx, complete with fake stalactites, that you have to cross to enter a chamber called the Inner Temple. My personal favorite was a winding passage to nowhere stuffed with tacky mannequins of Dashwood and his cronies.”

  “Why did Dashwood dig the caves?”

  “Maybe he had more money than brains. The guy’s mausoleum is there, too. Looks like the Coliseum.”

  She drained her wine, swallowed quickly as another idea struck her.

  “Or maybe Frank was an eighteenth-century Walt Disney. Planned to make millions opening the place as a tourist attraction.”

  “Didn’t they provide an explanation?”

  “Yeah. Outside the cave there’s a long brick corridor with wall hangings that give the history. I was taking pictures, so I didn’t read them. Ted did.”

  She rechecked her glass, found it still empty.

  “Just down the road, there’s an elaborate English manor called Medmenham Abbey. The place was built by twelfth-century Cistercian monks, but Dashwood bought and renovated it to use as a country getaway. Gothic walls, crumbling entrance with engraved motto arching above.”