While Stan finished sifting dirt from the alcove burial, Maggie and I probed every inch of the cellar floor, testing for the presence of buried objects and for differences in soil density. We found eight suspicious locations, two in the original alcove, two in the main chamber, and four in a dead-end tunnel off the chamber's west side.
By late afternoon we'd dug a test trench at each location. The suspect spots in the main room yielded only sterile soil. The other six sites produced human bone.
I explained to Stan and Maggie how we would proceed. I would request help from the sheriff 's department with photography and screening. Stan would continue in the alcove. Maggie and I would begin with the tunnel sites.
I directed my crew with professional detachment, the calm of my voice and the composure of my face wildly out of sync with my pounding heart. It was my worst nightmare. But what
Maggie and I were excavating the first two tunnel disturbances when a figure appeared at the entrance, caught between our spots and a light in the main chamber. I couldn't make out the silhouette, and wondered if a member of the transport team was coming to ask a question.
One step and I knew.
Larke Tyrell walked toward me, gait precise, back ramrod straight. I rose but did not greet him.
“I've been trying your portable.”
“The press have me on autodial.”
He did not pursue it.
“What's the count?”
“At this point, two decomposed bodies and two skeletons. There's bone in at least four other locations.”
His eyes moved from my face to the pits where Maggie and I were uncovering skeletons, each with tightly flexed limbs.
“They look like prehistoric bundle burials.”
“Yes, but they're not.”
His gaze swung back to me.
“You would know that.”
“Yes.”
“Tommy sent the two decomps to Harris Regional, but they're not going to want their autopsy room tied up. I'll order everything transferred to the incident morgue and keep the place operational for as long as you need.”
I did not reply.
“You will do this?”
“Of course.”
“Everything is under control?”
“Here it is.”
“I'm looking forward to your report.”
“I have excellent penmanship.”
“I thought you'd like to know that the last of the Air TransSouth passengers has been identified.”
“Petricelli and the students in 22A and B?”
“Petricelli, yes. And one of the students.”
“Only one?”
“Two days ago the young man assigned to seat 22B phoned his father from Costa Rica.”
“He wasn't on the plane?”
“While in the waiting area, a man offered him a thousand bucks for his boarding pass.”
“Why didn't he come forward earlier?”
“He was in the rain forest and completely cut off, never heard about the crash until he returned to San Jose. Then he hesitated a few days before calling home, knowing the jig was up for torpedoing the semester.”
“Who is the substitute passenger?”
“The unluckiest bastard in the universe.”
I waited.
“A tax accountant from Buckhead. We found him through a thumbprint.”
He looked at me a very long moment. I stared back. The tension between us was palpable.
“This is not the place, Tempe, but we do need to talk. I am a fair man, but I have acted unfairly. There have been pressures.”
“Complaints.”
Though Maggie kept her eyes down, the rhythm of her trowel changed. I knew she was listening.
