Fatal Voyage (28 page)

 In 1959 the fauna claimed a seventy-four-year-old Cherokee named
Charlie Wayne Tramper. Two weeks after his disappearance, Charlie Wayne’s rifle turned up in a
remote valley on the reservation. Bear tracks and spoor suggested the cause of death. The old man
was buried with full tribal ceremony.

 I’d worked on victims of bear attacks, and knew what had remained of
Charlie Wayne. I shook the image from my mind.

 The list of environmental hazards courtesy of Mother Nature went on. In
1972 a four-year-old girl wandered from a campground in Maggie Valley.

 The little body was dragged from a lake the following day. The next

 · · winter two cross-country skiers froze to death when
caught in a sudden blizzard. In 1986 an apple farmer named Albert Odell went searching for morels
and never returned.

 I found no reference to Prentice Dashwood, to the Arthur property, or
to the officers of the H&F Investment Group. The closest I came was a May 1959 spread on a
fiery crash on Highway 19. Six hurt, four killed.

 Pictures showed tangled wreckage. Dr. Anthony Alien Birkby,
sixty-eight, from Cullowhee, died three days later of multiple injuries.

 I took note. Though the name was not uncommon, one C.A. Birkby was
listed on Mcmahon’s fax.

 By noon, my head pulsed and my blood sugar had dropped to a level
incapable of sustaining life. I slipped a granola bar from my purse, did a stealthy peel, and
munched quietly as I cranked my zillionth spool through the viewer.

 Issues from recent years were not yet on microfilm, and by midafternoon
I was able to switch to hard copy. But the headache had already escalated from a minor
disturbance to major pain that swirled across my frontal, temporal, and occipital lobes and
pulsed at an epicenter behind my right eye.

 Final stretch. The tough get going. Bring it home. Remember the
Gipper.

 Shit.

 I was flipping through papers from the current year, scanning headlines
and photographs, when a name caught my eye. George Adair. The missing fisherman.

 The coverage of Adair’s disappearance was detailed, giving the exact
time and place of the fatal fishing trip, a description of the victim, and an itemized account of
what he was wearing, right down to his high school ring and St. Blaise medal.

 Another childhood flashback. The parish priest. The blessing of throats
on St. Blaise Day. What was the story? Blaise was reputed to have saved a child from choking on a
fish bone. The medal made sense.

 Crowe said Adair complained of throat problems.

 Adair’s companion was interviewed, as were his wife, friends, former
employer, and priest. A grainy picture was printed beside the story, the pendant clearly visible
around his neck.

 Who was Crowe’s other missing person? I searched my pounding brain.

 Jeremiah Mitchell. February. I moved back almost eight months and began
a more careful perusal. Small things began to connect.

 Jeremiah Mitchelps disappearance was reported in one short paragraph.
On February 15 a seventy-two-year-old black male left the Mighty High Tap and walked into
oblivion. Anyone having information blah, blah, blah.

 Old ways die hard, I thought, feeling a prickle of anger. White man
goes missing: feature story. Black man goes missing: blurb on page seventeen. Or maybe it
was station in life. George Adair had a job, friends, family. Jeremiah Mitchell was an unemployed
alcoholic who lived alone.

 But Mitchell had once had kin. A follow-up appeared in early March,
again a single paragraph, seeking information and citing the name of his maternal grandmother,
Martha Rose Gist. I stared. How far back had I seen that name?

 I returned to the boxes, jumping the microfilm weeks at a turn. The
obituary appeared on May 16, 1952, along with six inches in the arts column. Martha Rose Gist had
been a potter of local fame. The article included a picture of a beautifully decorated ceramic
bowl, but none of the artist.

 Damn!

 Checking to be sure the overflow room was empty, I clicked on my
cell.

 Six messages. Ignoring them, I dialed Crowe’s number, muffling the
beeps with my jacket.

 “Sheriff Crowe.”

 I didn’t bother announcing myself.

 “Are you familiar with Sequoyah?” I asked in a loud whisper.

 “Are you in church?”

 “The Bryson City library.” .

 “Iris catches you, she’ll rip off your lips and feed them to her
shredder.”

 I assumed Iris was the lilac-haired dragon I’d met at the entrance.

 “Sequoyah?”

 “Sequoyah invented an alphabet for the Cherokee language. Hang around
long enough and someone will buy you an ashtray decorated with the symbols,” she said.

 “What was Sequoyah’s family name?”

 “You want my final answer?”

 “I’m serious.”

 “Guess.”

 “This is important,” I hissed.

 “His name was Guess. Or Gist, depending on the transliteration.
Why?”

 “Jeremiah Mitchell’s maternal grandmother was Martha Rose Gist.”

 “The potter?”

 “Yes.”

 “I’ll be damned.”

 “You know what that means?”

 I didn’t wait for her answer.

 “Mitchell was part Cherokee.”

 “This is a library!”

 Iris’s words scorched the side of my face.

 I held up a finger.

 “Hang up instantly!” She spoke as loud as a human can without using the
vocal cords.

 “Is there a newspaper printed on the reservation?”

 “The Cherokee One Feather. And I think there’s a tribal photo archive
at the museum.”

 “Gotta go.” I disconnected and shut off the power.

 “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Iris stood with hands on hips,
the gestapo protectress of the printed word.

 “Shall I return the boxes?”

 “That will not be necessary.”

 It took three stops to find what I needed. A trip to the offices of the
Cherokee One Feather, located in the Tribal Council Center, revealed that the paper had only been
in print since 1966. While there had been a predecessor publication years before, The Cherokee
Phoenix, the current staff had no photos or back issues in their possession.

 The Cherokee Historical Association had pictures, but most had been
taken as promotional shots for the outdoor theatrical production Unto These Hills.

 I hit pay dirt at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, directly across
the street. When I repeated my request, I was taken to a second-floor office, issued cotton
gloves, and allowed to graze through their photo and newspaper archives.

 Within an hour I had confirmation.

 Martha Rose Standingdeer was born in 1889 on the Qualla Boundary. She
wed John Patrick Gist in 1908 and gave birth to a daughter, Willow Lynette, the following
year.

 At the age of seventeen, Willow married Jonas Mitchell at theame Zion
Church in Greenville, South Carolina. Their wedding portrait shows a delicate girl in a cloche
veil and Empire gown, a bouquet of daisies in her hands. At her side stands a man with skin much
darker than that of his bride.

 I studied the picture. Though rawboned and homely, Jonas Mitchell was
appealing in a strange sort of way. Today, he might have modeled for Benetton ads.

 Willow Mitchell gave birth to Jeremiah in 1929, died of tuberculosis
the following winter. I found no mention of Jonas or his son after that date.

 I sat back, processing what I’d learned.

 Jeremiah Mitchell was at least one half Native American. He was
seventy-two years old when he disappeared. The foot must surely be his.

 My deductive centers logged in immediately. The dates didn’t
correlate.

 Mitchell went missing in February. The VFA profile gives a postmortem
interval of six to seven weeks, placing the death in late August or early September.

 Maybe Mitchell survived the night of the Mighty High Tap. Maybe he
ventured off, then returned and died of exposure six months later.

 Ventured off?

 On a trip.

 A seventy-two-year-old alcoholic with no car or money?

 It happens.

 Uh-huh. Died of exposure in the summer?

 I sat, stumped and frustrated by a million facts I couldn’t
integrate.

 Hoping pictures would be more headache friendly, I switched to the
photo archives.

 Again, small things caught my attention.

 I’d gone through fifty or sixty folders when an eight-by-ten
black-and-white aroused my interest. Flower-draped casket. Mourners, some in broad-shouldered
baggy suits, others in traditional Cherokee dress. I flipped to the back. A yellowed label
identified the event in faded ink: Charlie Wayne Tramper Funeral. May 17,1959. The old man who
had gone missing and been killed by a bear.

 My gaze roved over the faces, then froze on one of two young men
standing apart from the crowd. I was so surprised I gasped.

 Though forty years younger, there was no mistaking that face. He would
have been in his late twenties in 1959, newly arrived from England. A professor of archaeology at
Duke. An academic superstar about to fade.

 Why was Simon Midkiff at Charlie Wayne Tramper’s funeral?

 My eyes slid right, and this time the gasp was audible. Simon Midkiff
was standing shoulder to shoulder with a man who would later rise to the office of lieutenant
governor.

 Parker Davenport.

 Or was it? I stared at the features. Yes. No. This man was much
younger, thinner.

 I hesitated, looked around. No one had poked through this file for half
a century. It wasn’t stealing. I would return the print in a few days, no damage done.

 I slipped the photo into my purse, returned the folder to its drawer,
and bolted.

 Outside, I dialed Raleigh Information, requested a number for the
Department of Cultural Resources, then waited while the connection was made. When a voice
answered I asked for Carol Burke. She came on in less than ten seconds.

 “Carol Burke.”

 “Carol, this is Tempe Brennan.”

 “Good timing. I was just about to close it up for the day. Are you
planning to dig up another graveyard?”

 Among its many duties, the North Carolina Department of Cultural
Resources is responsible for heritage preservation. When development involving state or federal
moneys, permits, licenses, or lands is proposed, Carol and her colleagues order surveys and
excavations to determine if prehistoric or historic sites will be threatened.

 Highway projects, airport work, sewer lines without their clearance, no
ground is broken.

 Carol and I met in the days when archaeology was my main focus. Twice
Charlotte developers had retained me to help relocate historic cemeteries. Carol had overseen
both projects.

 “Not this time. I’d like information.”

 “I’ll do my best.”

 “I’m curious about the site Simon Midkiff is digging for you.”

 “Currently?”

 “Yes.”

 “He’s not doing anything for us at the moment. At least nothing of
which I’m aware.”

 “Isn’t he excavating in Swain County?”

 “I don’t think so. Hold on.”

 By the time she returned, I’d walked to Ryan’s car and opened the
door.

 “Nope. Midkiff hasn’t worked for us in over two years and isn’t likely
to any time soon because he still owes us a site report from his last contract.”

 “Thanks.”

 “I wish all my requests were this simple.”

 I’d barely put down the phone when it rang again. A journalist from the
Charlotte Observer. A reminder of my continuing notoriety. I clicked off without comment.

 A thousand cranial vessels pulsed in my skull. Nothing made sense. Why
had Midkiff lied? Why had he and Davenport attended the Tramper funeral? Did they know each
other back then?

 I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.

 Boyd.

 After popping two Bayers, I collected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd
rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in
every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel,
then the wall at the courtyard house. Just what had his former owner trained him to find?

 Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.

 The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hill, overlooking
Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valley on the other. The drive took seven minutes.
Boyd did not understand the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I
pulled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.

 Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking
back divots with his hind feet. Finally, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and
yipped.

 Sylvia Hotchkins Entered this world January 12, 1945. Left this world
April 20, 1968.

 Taken too early in the spring of her life.

 Sixty-eight was a rough year for all of us, Sylvia.

 Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large
oak shading Sylvia’s grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the
tray in my hands.

 When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.

 “Sit.”

 He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose,
separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettuce-tomato garnish sequentially.
Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.

 “Sit.”

 He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them
delicately off the surface so they wouldn’t sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and
slipped a straw into my drink.

 “Now here’s the deal.”

 Boyd glanced up, went back to the fries.

 “Why would Simon Midkiff have gone to the funeral of a

 seventy-four-year-old Cherokee killed by a bear in 1959?“