Fatal Voyage

“Cynicism.”

Ruby arrived with ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast. Though my normal routine is cereal and coffee, I dug in like a recruit at boot camp.

Ryan and I ate in silence while I did some mental sorting. His presence annoyed me, but why? Was it his supreme self-confidence? His custodial attitude? His invasion of my turf? The fact that less than a year ago he'd prioritized the job over me and disappeared from my life? Or the fact that he'd reappeared exactly when I'd needed help?

As I reached for toast I realized he'd said nothing about his stint undercover. Fair enough. Let him bring it up.

“Jam, please.”

He passed it.

Ryan had gotten me out of a nasty spot.

I spread blackberry preserves thicker than lava.

The wolves weren't Ryan's fault. Nor was the crash.

Ruby poured refills.

And the man has just lost his partner, for God's sake.

Compassion overrode irritation.

“Thanks for your help with the wolf thing.”

“They weren't wolves.”

“What?” Irritation boomeranged back.

“They weren't wolves.”

“I suppose it was a pack of cocker spaniels.”

“There are no wolves in North Carolina.”

“Crowe's deputy talked about wolves.”

“The guy probably wouldn't know a wombat from a caribou.”

“Wolves have been reintroduced into North Carolina.” I was sure I'd read that somewhere.

“Those are red wolves and they're on a reserve down east, not in the mountains.”

“I suppose you're an expert on North Carolina wildlife.”

“How did they hold their tails?”

“What?”

“Did the animals hold their tails up or down?”

I had to think.

“Down.”

“A wolf holds its tail straight out. A coyote keeps its tail low, raises it to horizontal when threatening.”

I pictured the animal sniffing, then raising its tail and locking me into its gaze.

“You're telling me those were coyotes?”

“Or wild dogs.”

“There are coyotes in Appalachia?”

“There are coyotes all over North America.”

“So what?” I made a mental vow to check.

“So nothing. I just thought you might want to know.”

“It was still terrifying.”

“Damn right. But it's not the worst thing you've ever been through.”

Ryan was right. Though frightening, the coyote incident was not my worst experience. But the days that followed were contenders. I spent every waking moment up to my elbows in shattered flesh, separating commingled remains and reassociating body parts. As part of a team of pathologists, dentists, and other anthropologists, I determined age, sex, race, and height, analyzed X rays, compared antemortem and postmortem skeletal features, and interpreted injury patterns. It was a gruesome task, made even grimmer by the youth of most of those being analyzed.

For many, the stress was too much. Some hung in, running on the rim until tremors, tears, or unbearable nightmares finally won out. These were the ones who would require extensive counseling. Others simply packed up and slipped back home.

But for most, the mind adjusted and the unthinkable became the ordinary. We mentally detached and did what needed doing. Each night as I lay in bed, lonely and exhausted, I was comforted by the day's progress. I thought of the families, and assured myself that the system was working. We would grant them closure of sorts.

Then specimen number 387 arrived at my station.