Fatal Voyage (21 page)

 The other end of the building held a work bay in which a battered Chevy
station wagon was pede staled on a hydraulic lift, its doors flung wide.

 The car looked as though it were taking flight.

 An old Pinto and two pickups were parked outside the office. I did not
see a tow truck.

 As Bowman got out, Boyd began what I knew was not a Pinto growl.

 Following his line of vision I spotted a black-and-brown dog lying
inside the office door. It looked pure pit bull.

 The flesh on Boyd’s snout compressed against his gums. His body
tensed.

 The growl deepened.

 Damn. Why hadn’t I brought the leash?

 Wrapping my fingers around Boyd’s collar, I opened the door and we both
jumped down. Bowman met us with a length of rope.

 “Had this in back,” he said. “Flush can be peevish.”

 I thanked him and tied the rope to Boyd’s collar. Boyd remained focused
on the other dog.

 “I’d be glad to hold him while you talk with the mechanic.”

 I looked at Boyd. He was staring fixedly at Flush, thinking flank
steak.

 “Thanks. That might be wise.”

 Crossing the lot, I stepped through the door and circled Flush. An ear
twitched, but he didn’t look up. Maybe pit bulls are calm because they are secure in the belief
that they can kill anyone or anything that provokes them. I hoped Boyd would keep quiet and keep
his distance.

 The office had the usual tasteful garage appointments. A calendar with
a photo of the Grand Canyon and tear-off sheets for each month. A cigarette machine. A glass case
containing flashlights, maps, and an assortment of automotive paraphernalia. Three kitchen
chairs. A pit bull.

 A pair of geezers occupied two of the chairs. In the third sat a
middle-aged man in an oil-stained work shirt and pants. The men stopped talking when I entered,
but no one rose.

 Assuming the younger man was either P or T, I introduced myself and
asked about the tow.

 He answered that the wrecker was on its way, should be back in twenty
minutes. He’d look at my car as soon as he finished the Chevy.

 How long would that be?

 He couldn’t say, but offered me the chair if I wanted to wait.

 The air inside was packed tight with smells. Gas, oil, cigarette smoke,
geezers, dog. I elected to wait outside.

 Returning to Luke Bowman, I thanked him for his kindness and reclaimed
my dog. Boyd was straining at his collar, every fiber focused on the pit bull. Flush was either
sleeping or playing possum, waiting for the chow to approach.

 “You’ll be all right by yourself?”

 “My car will be here any minute. And there’s a detective on his way
over. If it’s going to take long he can give me a lift back to High Ridge House. But thank you
again. You’ve been a lifesaver.”

 My phone rang again. I checked the number, ignored the call. Bowman
watched. He seemed reluctant to leave.

 “Sister Mccready is housing quite a few crash investigation folks up
there, in’t she?”

 “Some are there.”

 “That air crash is nasty business.” He pinched his nostrils then shook
his head.

 I said nothing.

 “Do they have any idea what brought that plane down?”

 He must have seen something in my face.

 “You didn’t hear my name from Ruby Mccready, did you, Miss.
Temperance?”

 “It came up in a briefing.”

 “Lord God Almighty.”

 The dark eyes seemed to grow darker for an instant. Then he dropped his
chin, reached up, and massaged his temples.

 “I’ve sinned, and my Savior wants confession.”

 Oh boy.

 When Bowman looked back up his eyes were moist. His voice cracked as he
spoke the next sentence.

 “And the Lord God sent you to bear witness.”

 BACK IN THE TRUCK, IT TOOK LUKE BOWMAN A FULL HALF HOUR to unburden his
soul. During that time I had four calls from the media. I finally turned the unit off.

 As Bowman talked, the phrase “obstruction of justice” floated through
my mind. The rain started again. I watched fat drops wriggle through the windshield film and
pockmark puddles in the lot. Boyd lay curled at my feet, persuaded at last that leaving Flush
undisturbed was a better plan.

 My car arrived, rolling behind the wrecker like sea salvage. Bowman
continued his strange narrative.

 The station wagon was lowered and moved to join the Pinto and
pickups.

 The man in the oil-stained clothing opened a door and steer-pushed my
Mazda into the bay. Then he raised the hood and peered under.

 Bowman talked on, seeking absolution.

 Finally the reverend stopped, his tale finished, a place near his god
reestablished. It was then that Ryan swung into the lot.

 When Ryan got out of his car, I lowered my window and called out.

 Crossing to the truck, he leaned down and spread his forearms on my
window ledge.

 I introduced Bowman.

 “We’ve met.” Moisture glistened like a halo around the perimeter of
Ryan’s hair.

 “The reverend has just relayed an interesting story.”

 “Has he?” The iceberg eyes studied Bowman.

 “It may translate into something helpful to you, Detective. It may
not.

 But it’s God’s honest truth.“

 “Feeling the devil’s riding crop, brother?”

 Bowman looked at his watch.

 “I’ll let this fine lady tell it to you.”

 He turned the key and Boyd raised his head. When Ryan stepped back and
opened my door, the chow stretched and hopped out, looking slightly annoyed.

 “Thank you, again.”

 “It was my pleasure.” He looked at Ryan. “You know where to find
me.”

 I watched the pickup lurch across the lot, its tires shooting spray
from the water-filled ruts.

 I’d never known Bowman’s brand of faith. Why had he told me what he
had? Fear? Guilt? A desire to cover his ass? Where were his thoughts now? On eternity? On
repentance? On the pork chops he’d defrosted for tonight’s dinner?

 “What’s the status of your car?” Ryan’s question brought me back.

 “Hold on to Boyd while I go check.”

 I ran to the work bay, where P/T was still under my hood. He thought
the problem might be a water pump, would know tomorrow. I gave him my cell phone number and told
him I was staying with Ruby Mccready.

 When I returned to the car, Ryan and Boyd were already inside. I joined
them, brushing rain from my hair.

 “Would a broken water pump make a loud noise?” I asked.

 Ryan shrugged.

 “How come you’re back from Asheville so early?”

 “Something else came up. Listen, I’m meeting Mcmahon for dinner. You
can entertain us both with Bowman’s parable.”

 “Let’s drop Rinty off first.”

 I hoped we weren’t going to Injun Joe’s.

 We didn’t.

 After settling Boyd at High Ridge House, we drove to the Bryson City
Diner. The place was long and narrow like a railroad car. Chrome booths jutted from one side,
each with its own condiment tray, napkin holder, and miniature jukebox. A chrome counter ran the
length of the other, faced by stools bolted to the floor at precise intervals. Red vinyl
upholstery. Plastic-domed cake bins. Coat rack at the door. Rest rooms in back.

 I liked the place. No promise of a mountain view or ethnic
experience.

 No confusing acronym. No misspelling for alliterative cuteness. It was
a diner and the name said that.

 We were early for the dinner crowd, even in the mountains. A few
customers sat at the counter, grumbling over the weather or talking about their problems at work.
When we entered, most glanced up.

 Or were they talking about me? As we moved to the corner booth I felt
eyes on my back, sensed nudges directing attention toward me. Was it my imagination?

 We’d no sooner sat than a middle-aged woman in a white apron and pink
dress approached and issued handwritten menus sheathed in plastic. The name “Cynthia” was
embroidered over her left breast.

 I chose pot roast. Ryan and Mcmahon went for meat loaf.

 “Drinks?”

 “Iced tea, please. Unsweetened.”

 “Same here.” Mcmahon.

 “Lemonade.” Ryan stayed deadpan, but I knew what he was thinking.

 Cynthia looked at me a long time after jotting our order, then tucked
the pencil above her ear. Circling the counter, she tore off the sheet and pinned it to a wire
above the service window.

 “Two sixes and a four,” she bellowed, then turned to look at me
again.

 The paranoia flared anew.

 Ryan waited until Cynthia brought drinks, then told Mcmahon I had a
statement from Luke Bowman.

 “What the hell were you doing with Bowman?” There was concern in his
voice. I wondered if it was there out of worry for my safety, or out of knowledge that meddling
in the investigation could get me arrested.

 “My car broke down. Bowman gave me a lift. Don’t ask me why that
inspired the baring of his soul.”

 I unsheathed a straw and jammed it into my tea.

 “Do you want to hear this?”

 “Go ahead.”

 “It seems the reverends Bowman and Claiborne have been slugging it out
over ministerial boundaries for some time. The Holiness movement isn’t what it once was, and the
parsons are forced to compete for followers from a dwindling pool. This takes showmanship.”

 “Could we back up? We’re talking snakes here, right?” Ryan asked.

 I nodded.

 “What do snakes have to do with holiness?”

 This time I did not ignore Ryan’s question.

 “Holiness followers interpret the Bible literally, and cite specific
passages that mandate the handling of snakes.”

 “What passages?” Ryan’s voice dripped with scorn.

 “”In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new
tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt
them.“ The Gospel of Mark, chapter sixteen, verses seventeen and eighteen.”

 Ryan and I stared at Mcmahon.

 “”Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions,
an dover all the power of the enemy; and nothing by any means shall hurt you.“ Luke, chapter ten,
verse nineteen,” Mcmahon continued.

 “How do you know that?” Ryan said.

 “We all carry baggage.”

“I thought you trained in engineering.”

 “I did.”

 Ryan circled back to the reptiles.

 “Are the snakes tamed in some way? Are they accustomed to being
handled, or have their fangs been pulled, or their venom milked?”

 “Apparently not,” Mcmahon said. “They use diamondbacks and water
moccasins caught in the hills. Quite a few handlers have died.”

 “Isn’t it illegal?”

“Yes,” said Mcmahon. “But in North Carolina snake handling is merely a
misdemeanor, and rarely enforced.”

 Cynthia arrived with our meals, left. Ryan and I shook salt and
pepper.

 Mcmahon covered everything on his plate with gravy.

 “Go on, Tempe,” he said.

 “I’ll try to reconstruct this as best I can.”

 I tested a green bean. It was perfect, sweet and greasy after hours of
cooking with sugar and bacon fat. God bless Dixie. I had several more.

 “Though he denied it in his interview with the NTSB, Bowman was outside
his house that day. And he was launching things into the sky.”

 I halted for a bite of pot roast. It was equal to the beans.

 “But not rockets.”

 The men waited while I forked another piece of meat, swallowed. Chewing
was hardly necessary.

 “This is really good.”

 “What was he launching?”

 “Doves.”

 Ryan’s fork stopped in midair.

 “As in birds?”

 I nodded. “It seems the reverend relies on special effects to keep the
faithful interested.”

 “Sleight of hand?”

 “He prefers to think of it as theater for the Lord. Anyway, he says he
was experimenting the afternoon Air Trans South 228 went down.”

 Ryan urged me on with a gesture of his fork.

 “Bowman was working up a sermon on the Ten Commandments. He planned to
wave a clay model of the tablets, and finish with a replay of Moses destroying the originals in
anger over the Hebrew people’s abandonment of their faith. As a finale, he’d dash the mock-ups to
the ground, and admonish the congregation to repent. When they begged forgiveness, he’d hit a
couple of levers and a flock of doves would rise up in a cloud of smoke. He thought it would be
effective.”

“Mind-blowing,” said Ryan.

 “So that’s his tell-all tabloid confession? He was in the backyard
playing with pigeons and smoke?” said Mcmahon.

 “That’s his story.”

 “Does he do this type of thing regularly?”

 “He likes spectacle.”

 “And he lied when questioned because he couldn’t risk his parishioners
finding out they were being duped?”

 “So he says. But then the Almighty tapped him on the shoulder, and he
began to fear the loss of his soul.”

 “Or fear a bump in federal prison.” Ryan’s scorn had increased.

 I finished my green beans.

 “It actually makes sense,” Mcmahon said. “The other witnesses,
including Claiborne, stated they saw something shoot into the sky.

 Knowing the reliably unreliable nature of eyewitnesses, pigeons and
smoke would tally.“

 “Doves,” I corrected. “They’re more papal.”

 “The NTSB has pretty much ruled out the rocket theory, anyway,” Mcmahon
went on.

 “Oh?”

 “For a number of reasons.”

 “Give me one.”

 “There’s not been a single trace of a missile found anywhere within a
five-mile radius of the wreckage field.”

 Mcmahon spread mashed potatoes on a forkful of meat loaf.

 “And there’s no twinning.”

 “What’s twinning?”

 “Basically, it involves cracking in the crystalline structure of metals
such as copper, iron, or steel. Twinning requires forces greater than eight thousand meters per
second. Typically, that means a military explosive. Things like RDC or C4.”