Fatal Voyage (19 page)

 When she looked up, I nodded.

 “Byron?”

 “It’s a family name.” I smiled winningly.

 “Do you have a gun?”

 “Not here.” Not anywhere, but that would tarnish the image.

 “Does this have to do with the airplane crash?”

 I leaned close. She smelled of mint an dover perfumed shampoo. “What
we’re looking for could be critical to the investigation.”

 Behind me, I heard Ryan’s feet shift.

 “My name is Dorothy.” She handed back the card. “I’ll get it.”

 Dorothy went to a map case, pulled out a drawer approximately two
inches high, withdrew a large sheet, and spread it on the counter.

 Ryan and I bent over the map. Using township boundaries, roads, and
other markers, we pinpointed the section containing the courtyard house.

 Dorothy observed from her side of the divide, vigilant as an
Egyptologist displaying a papyrus.

 “Now we’d like section map six-two-one, please.” Dorothy smiled to
indicate she was part of the sting, went to another case, and returned with the document.

 Earlier in my career as an anthropologist, when I had done some
archaeology, I’d spent hours with U.S. Geological Survey maps and knew how to interpret symbols
and features. The experience came in handy.

 Using elevations, creeks, and roads, Ryan and I were able to zero in on
the house.

 “Section map six twenty-one, parcel four.”

 Keeping my finger on the spot, I looked up. Dorothy’s face was inches
from mine.

 “How long will it take to pull up the tax records for this
property?”

 “About a minute.”

 I must have looked surprised.

 “Swain County is not a pumpkin patch. We are computerized.”

 Dorothy went to a rear corner in her “secure” area and lifted a plastic
cover from a monitor and keyboard. Ryan and I waited as she fastidiously folded the plastic,
placed it on an overhead shelf, and booted the computer. When the program was up and running she
keyed in a number of commands. Seconds passed. Finally, she entered the tax number and the screen
filled with information.

 “Do you want hard copy?”

 “Please.”

 She unveiled a Hewlett-Packard bubble-jet printer similar to the first
one I’d ever owned. Again we waited while she folded and stored the plastic cover, took one sheet
of paper from a drawer, and placed it in the feeder tray.

 Finally, she hit a key, the printer whirred, and the paper disappeared
then oozed out.

 “I hope this helps,” she said, handing it to me.

 The printout gave a vague description of the property and its
buildings, its assessed value, the owner’s name and mailing address, and the address to which the
tax bills were being sent.

 I passed it to Ryan, feeling deflated.

 “”H&F Investment Group, LLP,“” he read aloud. “The mailing address
is a PO box in New York.”

 He looked at me.

 “Who the hell is the H&F Investment Group?”

 I shrugged.

 “What’s LLP?”

 “Limited liability partnership,” I said.

 “You could try the deed room.”

 We both turned to Dorothy. A touch of pink had sprouted on each
cheek.

 “You could look up the date that H&F bought the property, and the
name of the previous owner.”

 “They’d have that?”

 She nodded.

 We found the register of deeds around the corner from the tax
office.

 The records room was situated behind the obligatory counter, through a
set of slatted swinging doors. Shelves lining the walls and filling free-standing cases held deed
books spanning hundreds of years.

 Recent ones were square and red, their numbers stated in plain gold
lettering. Older volumes were ornately decorated, like leather-bound volumes of first
editions.

 It was like a treasure hunt, with each deed sending us backward in
time.

 We learned the following:

 The H&F Investment Group was an LLP registered in Delaware.
Ownership of tax parcel number four transferred to the partnership in 1949 from one Edward E.
Arthur. The description of the property was charming, but a bit loose by modern standards. I read
it aloud to Ryan.

 “”The property begins at a Spanish oak on a knob, the corner of
state

 grant 11807, and runs north ninety poles to the Bellingford line,
then

 up the ridge as it meanders with Bellingford’s line to a chestnut in
the

 line of the S.Q. Barker tract ‘“

 “Where did Arthur get it?”

 I skipped the rest of the survey and read on.

 “Do you want to hear the ‘ of the first part’ bits?”

 “No.”

 “‘… having the same land conveyed by deed from Victor T. Livingstone
and wife J.E. Clampett, dated March 26,1933, and recorded in Deed Book number 52, page 315,
Records of Swain County, North Carolina.”“

 I went to the shelf and pulled the older volume.

 Arthur had obtained the property from one Victor T. Living-stone in
1933. Livingstone must have purchased it from God, since there were no records before that
time.

 “At least we know how the happy homeowners got in and out.”

 The Livingstone and Arthur deeds both described an entrance road.

 “Or get in and out.” I was still not convinced the property was
abandoned. “While we were there Crowe found a track leading from the house to a logging trail.
The turnoff at the trail is obscured by a makeshift gate completely overgrown with kudzu. When
she showed me the entrance I couldn’t believe it. You could walk or drive past it a million times
without ever seeing it.” Ryan said nothing.

 “Now what?”

 “Now we wait for Crowe’s warrant.”

 “And in the meantime?”

 Ryan grinned, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

 “In the meantime we talk to the attorney general of the great state of
Delaware, find out what we can about the H&F Investment Group.”

 Boyd and I were sharing a club sandwich and fries on the porch at High
Ridge House when Lucy Crowe’s squad car appeared on the road below. I watched her wind upward
toward the driveway. Boyd continued to watch the sandwich.

 “Spending quality time?” Crowe asked when she’d reached the stairs.

 “He says I’ve been neglecting him.”

 I held out a slice of ham. Boyd tipped his head and took it gently with
his front teeth. Then he lowered his snout, dropped the ham on the porch, licked it twice, and
wolfed it down. In seconds his chin was back on my knee.

 “They’re just like kids.”

 “Mmm. Did you get the warrant?”

 Boyd’s eyes moved as my hand moved, alert for lunch meat or fries.

 “I had a real heart-to-heart with the magistrate.” .

 “And?” She sighed and removed her hat.

 “He says it’s not enough.”

 “Evidence of a body?” I was shocked. “Daniel Wahnetah could be
decomposing in that courtyard even as we speak.”

 “Are you familiar with the term junk science? I am. It was thrown at me
at least a dozen times this morning. I think old Frank is going to start his own support group.
Junk Science Victims Anonymous.”

 “Is the guy an idiot?”

 “He’s never going to Sweden to collect a prize, but he’s usually
reasonable.”

 Boyd raised his head and blew air through his nose. I put my hand down
and he sniffed, then gave it a lick.

 “You’re neglecting him, again.”

 I offered a slice of egg. Boyd dropped it, licked it, sniffed, licked
again, then left it on the porch.

 “I don’t care for egg in club sandwiches, either,” Crowe said to
Boyd.

 The dog moved his ear slightly, to indicate that he’d heard, but kept
his eyes on my plate.

 “It gets worse,” Crowe went on.

 Why not?

 “There have been additional complaints.”

 “About me?”

 She nodded.

 “By whom?”

 “The magistrate wouldn’t share that information. But if you go anywhere
near the site, the morgue, or any crash-related record, item, or family member, I am to arrest
you for obstruction of justice. That includes this courtyard property.”

 “What the hell is going on?” My stomach tightened in anger.

 Crowe shrugged. “I’m not sure. But you’re out of that
investigation.”

 “Am I allowed to go to the public library?” I spat.

 The sheriff rubbed the back of her neck and rested a boot on the bottom
step. Beneath her jacket I could see the bulge of a gun.

 “There’s something very wrong here, Sheriff.”

 “I’m listening.”

 “My room was ransacked yesterday.”

 “Theories?” I told her about the figurines in the bathtub.

 “Not exactly a Hallmark greeting.”

 “It’s probably that Boyd’s annoying someone.” I said it hopefully, but
didn’t really believe my own words.

 Boyd’s ears shot forward at the sound of his name. I gave him a slice
of bacon.

 “Is he a barker?”

“Not really. I asked Ruby if he makes noise when I’m away. She said he howls
a bit, but nothing extraordinary.”

 “What does Ruby say about it?”

 “Satan’s minions.”

 “Maybe you have something that someone wants.”

 “Nothing was taken, though all my files were thrown around. The whole
room was trashed.”

 “Did you keep notes on this foot?”

 “I’d taken them with me to Oak Ridge.”

 She looked at me a full five seconds, then nodded her nod.

 “Makes that Volvo episode a little more suspect. You watch
yourself.”

 Oh yes.

 Crowe leaned over and brushed off the toe of her boot, then looked at
her watch.

 “I’ll see if I can get the DA to push harder.”

 At that moment Ryan’s rental car appeared in the valley. The
driver’s-side window was open and his silhouette looked dark against the car’s interior. We
watched him climb the mountain and turn into the drive. Moments later he strode up the path, his
face looking drawn and tense.

 “What is it?”

 I heard Crowe’s hat brush the top of her thigh.

 Ryan hesitated a beat, then, “There’s still no sign of Jean’s
body.”

 I could read naked misery in his demeanor. And more. Self-imposed
guilt. The conviction that his absence from the partnership had caused Bertrand to be on
that plane. Detectives without partners are limited in what they can investigate. That makes them
available for courier duty.

 “They’ll find him,” I said softly.

 Ryan let his eyes rove the horizon, his back rigid, his neck muscles
tight as twisted ropes. After a full minute, he shook out and lit a cigarette, cupping the flame
in both hands.

 “How did your afternoon go?” He flicked the match.

 I told him about Crowe’s meeting with the magistrate.

 “Your foot may be a dead issue.”

 “What do you mean?”

 He blew smoke through his nostrils, then pulled something from his
jacket pocket.

 “They also found this.”

 He unfolded a paper and handed it to me.

 I STARED, FIRST IN CONFUSION, THEN IN DAWNING COMPREHENSION.

 Ryan had given me a composite produced on a color printer. There were
three images, each showing a fragment of plastic. In the first I could make out the letters
b-i-o-h-a-z. In the second, a truncated phrase:

 · · aboratory servic-. A red symbol practically leaped from
the third picture. I’d seen dozens at the lab, and recognized it instantly.

 I looked at Ryan.

 “It’s a biohazard container.”

 He nodded.

 “Which wasn’t on the manifest.”

 “No.”

 “And everyone thinks it held a foot.”

 “Opinion is running in that direction.”

 Boyd nudged my hand, and I absently held out the rest of the
sandwich.

 He looked at me, as though assuring himself there was no mistake, then
took the booty and moved off, opting for distance in case it was a misunderstanding, after
all.

 “So they’re admitting that the foot does not belong to any
passenger.”

 “Not exactly. But they’re opening up to the possibility.”

“What does this do to the warrant?” I asked Crowe.

 “It won’t help.”

 She pushed back from the step, stood with feet apart, and replaced her
hat.

 “But something’s reeking under that wall, and I intend to find out
what.”

 She gave her Sheriff Crowe head dip, turned, and walked up the
path.

 Moments later we saw her bubble top wending down the mountain.

 I felt Ryan’s stare and brought my gaze back to him.

 “Why did the magistrate nix the warrant?”

 “Apparently the guy’s a candidate for the Flat Earth Society. On top of
that, he’ll issue a warrant for obstruction if I so much as shed a skin cell.” My cheeks burned
with anger.

 Boyd crossed the porch, snout down, head moving from side to side.

 Reaching the swing, he sniffed up my leg, then sat and stared at me
with his tongue out.

 Ryan drew on his cigarette, flicked it onto the lawn. Boyd’s eyes
shifted sideways, then back to me.

 “Did you find out about H&F?”

 Ryan had gone to his “office” to phone Delaware.

 “I thought the request might be processed more expeditiously if it came
from the FBI, so I asked Mcmahon to make the call. I’ll be at the reassembly site all afternoon
but I can ask him tonight.”

 Reassembly. The piecing together of the airplane as it had been before
the event. Total reassembly is a tremendous drain on time, money, and manpower, of which the NTSB
had precious little. They do not attempt it in every major, do so reluctantly when public clamor
demands. They undertook it with TWA 800 because the Brits had done it with Pan Am 102, and they
didn’t want to be outperformed.

 With fifty dead students, reassembly was a given.

 For the past two weeks trucks had been carrying the wreckage from Air
Trans South 228 across the mountains to a rented hangar at the Asheville airport. Parts were
being laid out on grids corresponding to their positions on the Fokker-100. Parts that could not
be associated with specific sections of the plane were being sorted according to structure type.
Unidentifiable parts were being sorted according to position of recovery at the crash site.