The Bone Thief: A Body Farm Novel-5 (34 page)

Once again I braced my feet on a tree and lay down on steeply sloping ground. As before, I began to shiver within a few minutes of lying down. This time, unable to press onward, I jumped in place to warm up. I shook my arms and hands—my fingers had remained numb ever since my tumble into the stream—to keep the blood circulating. After warming up, I lay back down until the shivering recommenced, and then I jumped and flapped my arms again madly.

The third time I lay down to rest, I must have slept briefly, because when I opened my eyes, the sky had gone from black to gray. I had survived the night—the near fall off a ledge, the near miss with the boulder in the landslide zone, the hard tumble into the frigid stream. As the terrain around me grew visible and the air began to warm, the odds began shifting in my favor for the first time since sundown. I took a deep breath and exhaled, smiling at the plume of fog in the cold, pale light. I’d been wise to wait. I had indeed come to a side canyon, and the bluff here was fifty feet high, with only a few narrow notches that could be descended. A tall, thin tree slanted up through one of these. Leaning out, I grabbed the tree with both hands, braced against it, and chimneyed down the cleft. Once down, I stepped across the small stream that had carved the ravine and continued along the left bank of the West Prong.

A short distance after I’d crossed the tributary, the river curved to the left, and as I rounded the curve, I felt my breath catch: A hundred yards away was the bridge over Laurel Creek Road—the bridge I’d been aiming for all night. I was exhausted and hurt, but I was alive, and I’d made it. As I approached the bridge, the left bank grew increasingly steep. There was no avoiding it: I’d have to ford the river one more time.Damn, I thought, but I half smiled.I can do this. This is nothing. I stripped once more, rolled up my clothes, and hung my shoes around my neck again. The river was bigger and deeper here than at the spot I’d forded far upstream—this time the ice-cold water rose above my waist, nearly to my armpits. As before, I quickly lost feeling in my feet, but, mercifully, the river bottom was sandy and smooth, and I crossed without stumbling. As I emerged near the base of the bridge, steam swirled from my naked body into the golden light of morning. I dressed as best I could—this time there was no hope of tying my shoes—then ascended the bank and turned north onto Laurel Creek Road. I was miles from my truck—possibly farther than I’d been at any time since I made the fateful decision to bushwhack—but unless whoever had fired five shots at me happened to be cruising this stretch of road looking for me, I was in less peril now than at any time since I’d veered off the trail. I heard a car winding up the road. Stepping into the center of the pavement, I waved both arms to flag it down. The driver, a middle-aged woman, rolled her window down half an inch, eyeing me with deep suspicion.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I’m wondering if you have a cell phone and if you’d be willing to make an emergency call for me?”

“Yes, I have a cell phone.” From the dubious tone of her voice, I suspected she might call to report that a sinister stranger was trying to abduct her.

“I was stranded in the mountains all night,” I explained, “I think maybe I’ve got some bruised ribs, and I expect the park rangers are starting a search for me along about now.”

She took a closer look at me, and I could see her eyes taking in the scratches on my face, the rips in my clothes, and the exhaustion in my posture. Her eyes softened. “Oh, my stars,” she said, “get in the car.”

She unlocked the passenger door, and I eased myself down into the seat. “I’ll take you to the ranger station at Cades Cove.”

I hesitated. “I hate to impose, but my truck’s parked at Tremont, and I’m guessing that’s where they’ll start the search. Would you be willing to backtrack and take me to Tremont?” Pulling onto the shoulder, she made a quick U-turn. A moment later I heard a loud, staccato clacking; when the woman glanced at me in alarm and cranked the heater up to full blast, I realized the clacking was coming from my chattering teeth.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

We reached the Tremont turnoff in five minutes or less, then made it to the end of the gravel road in another ten.Amazing, I thought.In fifteen minutes we’ve covered the same distance it took me twelve hours to crawl last night.

At the turnaround loop, two park-police SUVs were idling beside my truck. As I got out of the car and hobbled toward the truck, a ranger emerged from one of the SUVs. He glanced at me briefly, and then his eyes widened. “It’s you,” he said.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“AND YOU THINK SOMEONE TOOK A SHOT AT YOU?”
The ranger, a bearded, middle-aged fellow named Stapleton, seemed skeptical, as if he suspected that my night in the mountains had played tricks on my mind. That wouldn’t have been an unreasonable thing for him to suspect, I realized. Ranger Stapleton was sitting behind the wheel of a Jeep Cherokee that was painted pea green—a color so hideous that the park service could be certain no car thief would ever be tempted to steal the vehicle. I sat in the Jeep’s passenger seat, the heater blasting blessedly hot.

“Five shots,” I said, tipping aside the oxygen mask so as not to muffle the words. The mask had been handed to me by another ranger, a young paramedic named Nick, who was leaning through the Jeep’s passenger window with a stethoscope and a blood-pressure cuff. Before offering me oxygen and checking my vital signs, Nick had draped my shoulders with his own jacket, a bright yellow fleece. I took another whiff of oxygen, then added, “Maybe the shell cases are still there. I can show you where he was.”

“You stay put till the ambulance gets here,” said Nick.

“What ambulance? I don’t need an ambulance,” I squawked.

“All ten of your fingers have frostnip,” Nick began. “And technically—”

I interrupted him. “‘Frostnip’? Is that really a word?”

“It is. A mild version of frostbite.”

“That doesn’t sound like it requires an ambulance,” I protested.

“Not on its own,” he responded, “but technically you’re still in hypothermia. Your temperature’s still below ninety-five degrees.”

“Crank up the heat for another ten minutes and it’ll be ninety-six,” I argued.

“Nick’s right,” said Stapleton. “You sit tight. Tell me where you think this shooter was, and we’ll take a look.”

I pointed to the large footbridge that spanned the Middle Prong, then described taking the unmarked trail that led to the narrow, I-beam footbridge.

He frowned. “That’s not actually a trail. Used to be, but not in years.”

“It used to be a pretty nice one,” I said, “judging by the view I had of Cades Cove just before I started bushwhacking.”

He whistled. “Hell, you were way up Thunderhead Mountain. No wonder we couldn’t find you last night. You got yourself good and lost, didn’t you?”

I felt an absurd need to defend myself. “Actually, I had a pretty fair idea where I was,” I said, and it was true, if you defined the term “pretty fair idea” rather broadly. “I came out on Laurel Creek Road right where I thought I would. It just took me a while to get there.”

“That’s some rough terrain you crossed in the dark. Cold night, too. You’re lucky you made it down alive.”

“When that guy was shooting at me, I felt lucky to make itup alive,” I pointed out. “He was on this side of the stream, ten or twenty yards downstream from the I-beam bridge.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No. He was hidden by the trees.”

“But you saw enough to know that it was a man?”

“Actually, no,” I admitted. “I just assumed it was a man.”

Stapleton frowned at me for assuming. “Any idea who might want to shoot at you, and why?”

I had a very clear idea about that, in fact, but I wasn’t at liberty to mention Ray Sinclair or the FBI investigation. “I’ve helped put some people in prison over the years,” I said. “Maybe one of them just got out. Or maybe it was that student I gave an F to yesterday.”

Nick laughed, and that made me smile. But my smile evaporated when I saw a black Ford sedan pull in to the parking area and Steve Morgan get out.

Fifteen years before Steve had been an undergraduate student in my osteology class. Now he was a TBI agent. I’d kept in loose touch with him during the ten years or so since he’d joined the TBI; we’d even worked together briefly on the Cooke County corruption case. Now, though, I was a suspect, and that put a distinct damper on our relationship. As he approached the park-service vehicle and flashed his badge, his face looked grim and sad, and I was pretty sure mine didn’t look any happier. Stapleton got out and exchanged a few words with him, and then the ranger spoke to Nick. Both rangers stepped away to give us privacy.

Steve leaned down and spoke through the open window. “Dr. Brockton, I hear you spent a long, cold night in the mountains.”

“Hello, Steve. I did indeed. How’d you know I was here?”

He didn’t answer the question. “I need to talk to you about something. Let’s go sit in my car.” He opened the door for me, and I followed him to the black TBI vehicle. I halfway expected him to put me in the back, but instead he held the front passenger door for me. The car’s interior smelled of spilled coffee.

“The ranger also says you think someone tried to shoot you.”

“I don’t just think it, Steve. Someone did try to shoot me.”

“Any idea who, and why?”

It was the same question Stapleton had just asked, but this time I couldn’t deflect it with a joke. “I can’t tell you, Steve.”

“Because you don’t have any idea?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Dr. Brockton, this is difficult. I need you to tell me what’s going on here.”

I was just flipping a mental coin—did the circumstances justify breaking my pledge of secrecy to the FBI?—when the hand of fate snatched the coin from midair: Another government-issue Ford pulled up alongside Morgan’s, and out clambered Special Agent Ben Rankin. He showed Steve his badge, then asked for a word in private. They walked fifty yards down the gravel road, then turned around and walked back up to the vehicles.

Whatever Rankin said to Steve during that hundred-yard walk, it was enough to get me out of the TBI agent’s car but not enough to remove the frown from his face. He opened the car door and informed me I could go, adding, “Take care. Good luck.”

As Morgan’s Ford fishtailed down the gravel road, Rankin motioned toward his own car.Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I thought. The FBI-issue vehicle at least didn’t smell of spilled coffee. Rankin studied me. “You all right, Doc?”

I shrugged, then nodded.

“Sounds like you had a rough night of it. All things considered, you look pretty good.”

I regarded him with a gimlet eye.

“Okay, that was a lie. Actually, you look like hell, but I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Thanks. Me, too. Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t realize what an iffy proposition that was.”

“I’ve got an evidence team coming to search the area where you saw the shooter.” He paused. “Sinclair was in Knoxville yesterday.”

“No kidding. Even I was able to figure that one out. Where is he today?”

“Don’t know. We’re looking. He dropped off a rental car at the Knoxville airport last night and caught a flight back to Newark.”

“Christ, Rooster. You guys arrested him three days ago. How is it he manages to fly to Knoxville, fire five shots at me, and then fly back to Newark without anybody at the FBI noticing?”

Now Rankin looked as unhappy as Morgan had—and as unhappy as I felt. “He’s out on bail. That means he can go anywhere he wants to. Hell, he could flee the country if he took a mind to.” He saw the expression of dismay and disbelief on my face. “Jesus, Doc, we don’t have the resources to tail all the bad guys all the time,” he said. “We hadn’t picked up anything on the phone or computer taps that made us think he was heading to Knoxville to shoot at you. Sorry, Doc.”

I stared out the window, then turned my weary gaze toward Rankin. “What’d you tell Morgan?”

“I told him we needed to have a meeting next week—my boss and his boss. I told him you were working with us on a sensitive investigation and we’d appreciate it if the TBI could give us a little room around you. Oh, I also told him we needed that file of photos your assistant gave him. We’ll get them up to the lab in Quantico next week and see if we can still find Sinclair’s prints underneath everybody else’s.”

The thought of the photos—and of their being seen by Miranda and Morgan and other people at the TBI—made me heart-sick. “Did you tell him I hadn’t done anything wrong?”

“I told him I expected we’d be able to answer all his questions very soon.”

“So he still thinks I’m a sleazebag?”

“I don’t know what he thinks.”

“He thinks I’m a sleazebag. You saw the look on his face when he let me out of his car.”

Rankin shrugged. “Maybe he just thinks I’m a jerk.”

“And you’re still not willing to tell the TBI or my assistant what’s really going on?”

“We need to sit on this until after the grand jury hears it.”

“And when is that?”

“Tuesday. Just three more days. Once he’s been indicted, we’ll take the lid off. It might not seem like much consolation at the moment, but if the evidence team recovers anything here that ties him to the shooting—prints on the brass, bullets we can match to a gun, tire impressions that match the tread on the rental car—we can add attempted murder to the list of charges.”

“You’re right,” I said. “At the moment that doesn’t seem like much consolation.”

He made no move to offer anything more.

“So do you need me for something else here, or can I go home and sleep for a week or two while my life crumbles around me?”

“Go get some rest. But first show me where to send the evidence techs.”

I took him to the fork in the trails and started up the path I’d taken. “Wait,” he said. “Let’s not disturb the area. Just show me.” I pointed to the cluster of hemlocks where I’d seen the muzzle flash, and I described the various points on the footbridge and the opposite embankment where I thought the bullets had hit.