Fatal Voyage (22 page)

 “And twinning is absent?”

 “So far.”

 “Meaning?”

 “The usual components of pipe bombs, things like gunpowder, gel ignites
and low-strength dynamite, aren’t powerful enough. They only reach forces of one thousand meters
per second. That doesn’t create enough shock to produce twinning, but it’s plenty of force to
cause havoc on an aircraft. So lack of twinning doesn’t rule out a detonation.” He emptied the
fork. “And there’s plenty of evidence of an explosion.”

 At that moment Ryan’s cell phone rang. He listened, and replied in
clipped French. Though I understood his words, they made little sense without the benefit of the
Quebec end of the conversation.

 “So the NTSB isn’t much further ahead than it was last week. Something
blew inside the rear of the plane, but they have no idea what or why.”

 “That’s about it,” Mcmahon agreed. “Though the rich husband has been
ruled out as a suspect. Turns out the guy was a candidate for priesthood. Made a
quarter-million-dollar donation to the Humane Society last year when they found his lost
cat.”

 “And the Sri Lankan kid?”

 “The uncle is still broadcasting in Sri Lanka, and there have been no
threats, notes, public statements, nothing from anyone over there. That angle looks like a dead
end, but we’re still checking.”

 “Has the investigation been handed over to the FBI?”

 “Not officially. But until terrorism is ruled out, we’re not going
away.”

 Ryan ended his phone conversation and fumbled for a cigarette. His face
was fixed in an expression I couldn’t read. Remembering my Damelle blunder, I didn’t ask.

 Mcmahon had no such compunction.

 “What’s happened?”

 After a pause, “Pepper Petricelli’s wife is missing.”

 “She took off?”

 “Maybe.”

 Ryan lit up, then scanned the table for an ashtray. Finding none, he
jammed the match into his sweet potato pudding. There was an awkward silence before he
continued.

 “A crack head named Andre Metraux was busted for possession yesterday
in Montreal. Being un enthused about a long separation from his pharmaceuticals, Metraux offered
to flip for consideration.”

 Ryan drew deeply, then blew smoke through both nostrils.

 “Metraux swears he saw Pepper Petricelli at a steak house in
Plattsburgh, New York, last Saturday night.”

 “That’s impossible,” I burst out. “Petricelli is dead… ” My voice
trailed off on the last word.

 Ryan’s eyes did a long sweep of the diner, then came back to rest on
mine. In them I saw pure agony.

 “Four passengers remain unidentified, including Bertrand and
Petricelli.”

 “They don’t think Oh, my God, what do they think?”

 Ryan and Mcmahon exchanged glances. My heartbeat quickened.

 “What is it you’re not telling me?”

 “Don’t go schizo id We’re not keeping things from you. You’ve had a
rough day, and we thought it could wait until tomorrow.”

 I felt anger coalesce like fog inside my chest.

 “Tell me,” I said evenly.

 “Tyrell attended the briefing today to present an updated trauma
chart.”

 I felt miserable at being excluded, and lashed out. “There’s a news
story.”

“He says he has remains that don’t fit anyone on the manifest.”

 I stared at him, too surprised to speak.

 “Only four passengers remain missing. All were in the left rear of the
plane. Their seats were pretty much pulverized, so it’s to be expected the occupants did not fare
well.”

 Ryan drew on his cigarette again, exhaled.

 “Twenty-two A and B were occupied by male students. Bertrand and
Petricelli were behind them in row twenty-three. Tyrell claims to have tissue fitting none of the
eighty-four passengers already identified, and none of these four.”

 “Such as?”

 “A shoulder fragment with a large tattoo.”

 “Someone could have gotten a tattoo right before the flight.”

 “A portion of jaw with elaborate bridgework.”

 “Fingerprints,” Mcmahon added.

 I took a moment to digest this.

 “What does it mean?”

 “It could mean a lot of things.”

 Mcmahon caught Cynthia’s eye and signaled for the check.

 “Maybe the biker boys got a stand-in and Petricelli really was enjoying
a porterhouse in New York last weekend.” Ryan’s voice was tempered steel.

 “What are you implying?”

 “If Petricelli wasn’t on that plane it means one of two things. Either
Bertrand was persuaded by greed or force to make a career change… ”

 Ryan took one last pull and added his butt to the sweet potatoes.

 “… or Bertrand was murdered.”

 Back in my room, I treated myself to a long hot bubble bath, followed
by a talcum powder chaser. Only slightly relaxed, but smelling of honeysuckle and lilac, I
propped myself in bed, raised my knees to my chest, pulled up the blankets, and turned on my
phone. I’d missed seventeen calls. Finding no familiar numbers, I dumped the messages and made a
call I’d been putting off.

 Though fall break had ended and university classes had resumed the day
before, I’d requested continued leave after finding the de comp stain at the courtyard house. I
hadn’t actually said it, but neither had I corrected my chair’s assumption that I was still
involved in victim processing. In a sense, I was.

 But today’s media delirium had made me apprehensive. Taking a deep
breath, I scrolled to Mike Perrigio’s number and hit “dial.” I was about to click off after seven
rings, when a woman picked up. I asked for Mike. There was a long pause. I could hear a lot of
racket in the background, a child crying.

 When Mike came on, he was brusque, almost cold. My classes were
covered.

 Keep checking in. Dial tone.

 I was still staring at the phone when it rang again.

 The voice was totally unexpected.

 Larke Tyrell asked how I was. He’d heard I was back in Bryson City.

 Could I meet with him the next day? Zero-nine-hundred at the family
assistance center? Good, good. Take care.

 Again, I sat staring at the little black handset, not knowing whether
to feel crushed or buoyed. My boss at the university obviously knew of the news coverage. That
had to be bad. But Larke Tyrell wanted to talk.

 Had the chief ME come around to my position? Had this other errant
tissue persuaded him that the great foot controversy did not involve crash remains?

 I reached for the chain on the bedside lamp. Lying in a silence filled
with crickets, I felt that my issues were at last being resolved. I was confident of vindication,
and never questioned the venue or purpose of the morning’s meeting.

 That was a mistake.

 THE FIRST THING I NOTICED ON OPENING MY EYES WAS A SHEET OF paper
wedged against the braided rug.

 The clock said seven-twenty.

 Throwing back the covers, I retrieved the paper and scanned the
contents. It was a fax containing six names.

 Shivering in panties and T-shirt, I checked the header information:

 Sender: Office of the Attorney General, State of Delaware.
Recipient:

 Special Agent Byron Mcmahon. Subject: H&F, LLP.

 It was the list of H&F officers. Mcmahon must have forgotten to
mention it the night before and had slipped it under my door. I read the names.

 Nothing clicked.

 Chilled through, I tucked the fax into the outer pocket of my computer
case, ran on tiptoes into the bathroom, and hopped into the shower.

 Reaching for the shampoo, I suffered my first defeat of the day.

 Damn! I’d left my groceries in Luke Bowman’s truck.

 Filling the empty shampoo container with water, I gave my hair a
low-lather scrub. After blowing it dry and applying makeup, I slipped on khakis and a white
cotton blouse, then checked my image.

 The woman in the mirror looked appropriately prim, but a bit too
casual.

 I added a cardigan, buttoned at the top as Katy had instructed.
Wouldn’t want to look like a dork.

 I checked again. Stylish but professional. I hurried downstairs.

 Too tense for breakfast, I threw down coffee, fed Boyd the dregs from
the Alpo bag, had a nervous tinkle, and collected my purse. I’d just crossed the front door
threshold when I stopped short.

 I had no wheels.

 I was standing on the porch, looking good but feeling panicky, when the
door flew open and a boy of about seventeen emerged. His hair was dyed blue and shaved to a
single strip running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His nose, eyebrows, and earlobes
displayed more metal than a Harley shop.

 Ignoring me, the young man clumped down the stairs and disappeared
around the house.

 Seconds later, Ryan appeared, blowing steam across the top of a
mug.

 “What’s up, buttercup?”

 “Who the hell was that kid?”

 “The studded Smurf?” He took an experimental sip. “Ruby’s nephew,
Eli.”

 “Nice look. Ryan, I hate to ask, but I have a meeting with Tyrell in
twenty minutes and just realized I have no car.”

 He dug into a pocket and tossed me his keys.

 “Take mine. I’ll ride with Mcmahon.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “You’re not on the rental contract. Don’t get arrested.”

 In the past, family assistance centers were established near accident
sites in order to facilitate the transfer of records. This practice was abandoned once
psychologists began to recognize the emotional impact on relatives of being in such proximity to
the death scene.

 The FAC for Air Trans South 228 was at a Sleep Inn in Bryson City. Ten
rooms had been converted into offices by replacing beds and armoires with desks, chairs,
telephones, and laptops. It was here that antemortem records had been collected, briefings had
been held, and families had been informed of identifications.

 All that was finished now. With the exception of a single pair, the
rooms that had once swarmed with grieving relatives, NTSB personnel medical examiner
interviewers, and Red Cross representatives had reverted to their original function.

 Security was also not what it had been. Pulling into the lot, I was
surprised to see journalists chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups, obviously awaiting a
breaking story.

 So intent was I on a timely arrival, it never crossed my mind that the
story was me.

 Then, a cameraman shouldered his minicam.

 “There she is.”

 Other cameras went up. Microphones shot out, and shutters clicked like
gravel in a power mower.

 “Why did you move remains?”

 “Did you tamper with disaster victim packets?”

 “Dr. Brennan… ”

 “Is it true that evidence is missing from cases you processed?”

 “Doctor… ”

 Strobes flashed in my face. Microphones nudged my chin, my forehead, my
chest. Bodies pressed against me, moved with me, like a tangle of seaweed clinging to my
limbs.

 I kept my eyes straight, acknowledging no one. My heart hammered as I
pushed forward, a swimmer struggling toward shore. The distance to the motel seemed oceanic,
insurmountable.

 Then, I felt a strong hand on my arm, and I was in the lobby. A state
trooper was locking the glass doors, glaring at the mob outside.

 “You all right, ma’am?”

 I didn’t trust my voice to reply.

 “This way, please.”

 I followed to a bank of elevators. The trooper waited with hands
clasped, feet spread as we ascended. I stood on rubbery legs, trying to recompose my
thoughts.

 “How did the press find out about this?” I asked.

 “I wouldn’t know that, ma’am.”

 On the second floor, the trooper walked to Room 201, squared his
shoulders to the wall beside the door.

 “It’s not locked.” He fixed his eyes on something that was not me.

 Drawing two steadying breaths, I turned the knob and entered.

 Seated behind a desk on the far side of the room was North Carolina’s
second in command. Of a zillion thoughts winging through my mind at that moment, this is the one
I remember: Parker Davenport’s color had improved since I’d seen him on the day of the crash.

 To the lieutenant governor’s left sat Dr. Larke Tyrell, to his right,
Earl Bliss. The ME looked at me and nodded. The DMORT commander’s eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

 “Dr. Brennan, please have a seat.” The lieutenant governor gestured to
an armchair directly in front of the desk.

 As I sat, Davenport leaned back and laced his fingers on his vest. The
view behind him was spectacular, a Smoky Mountain postcard in explosive fall color. Squinting
into the glare, I recognized my disadvantage. Had Tyrell been in charge, I’d have known the
seating arrangement was strategy. I wasn’t sure Davenport was that smart.

 “Would you like coffee?” Davenport asked.

 “No, thank you.”

 Looking at Davenport, I had difficulty imagining how he had lasted so
long in public office. He was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, smooth nor craggy. His hair
and eyes were nondescript brown, his speech flat and without inflection. In a system that elects
its leaders based on looks and eloquence, Davenport was clearly a non contender In a word, the
man was unmemorable. But perhaps this was his greatest asset.

 People voted for Davenport, then forgot him.

 The lieutenant governor unlaced his fingers, examined his palms, then
looked at me.

 “Dr. Brennan, some very disturbing allegations have been brought to my
attention.”

 “I’m glad we’re meeting to clear this up.”

 “Yes.” Davenport leaned into the desk and opened a folder. To its left
lay a videocassette. No one spoke as he selected and perused a document.

 “Let’s get right to the meat of this.”

 “Let’s.”

 “Did you enter the site of the Air Trans South crash on October fourth
prior to the arrival of NTSB or medical examiner officials?”

 “Since I was in the area, Earl Bliss asked me to stop by.” I looked at
the DMORT commander. His eyes remained on the hands in his lap.