“Did you try to break in?”
“Of course not!”
I flashed on myself prying a shutter with a rusty bar.
“And I had authorization to enter the crash site last week.”
“Whose?”
“Earl Bliss sent me there. You know that.”
“See, here's the problem, Tempe.” Larke rubbed a hand across his chin. “At that point DMORT hadn't been requested.”
I was stunned.
“In what way did I mishandle evidence?”
“I hate to even ask this.” The hand went back to the chin. “Tempe—”
“Just ask.”
“Did you pick up remains that hadn't been logged?”
The foot.
“I told you about that.” Stay calm. “I made a judgment call.”
He said nothing.
“Had I left that foot, it would now be coyote dung. Talk to Andrew Ryan. He was there.”
“I'll do that.”
Larke reached out and squeezed my arm.
“We'll sort this out.”
“You're taking this seriously?”
“I have no choice.”
“Why is that?”
“You know the press are snapping at my backside. They're gonna jump on this like a hound with a one-eyed hare.”
“Who made this complaint?” I blinked back tears.
“I can't tell you that.”
He dropped his hand and stared off at the mist. It was lifting now, revealing the landscape in a slow, upward peel. When he turned back, there was an odd expression on his face.
“But I will tell you that powerful people are involved.”
“The Dalai Lama? The Joint Chiefs of Staff?” Anger hardened my voice.
“Don't be mad at me, Tempe. This investigation is big news. If problems develop, no one's going to want to own them.”
“So I'm being set up in case a scapegoat is needed.”
“It's nothing like that. I just have to go through proper procedures.”
I took a deep breath.
“What happens now?”
He looked straight at me and his voice softened.
“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
“When?”
“Now.”
It was my turn to stare into the mist.
High Ridge House was deserted in the middle of the day. I left a note for Ruby, thanking her and apologizing for my abrupt departure and for my coolness the night before. Then I gathered my belongings, tossed them into my Mazda, and drove off so fast the tires threw up a gravel spray.
All the way home to Charlotte I stopped and started hard, screeching from lights then weaving from lane to lane once I reached the highway. For three hours I crawled up bumpers and rode the horn. I talked to myself, trying out words.
I was irate and depressed at the same time. The injustice of an anonymous accusation. The helplessness. For a week I'd been working under brutal conditions, seeing, smelling, and feeling death. I'd dropped everything, devoted myself to the effort, then been dismissed like a servant suspected of stealing. No hearing. No opportunity for explanation. No thank-you. Pack and go.
Besides the professional humiliation, there was the personal letdown. Though we'd been friends for years, and Larke knew I was scrupulous about professional ethics, he hadn't defended me. Larke was not a cowardly man. I had expected more of him.
The wild driving served its purpose. By the outskirts of Charlotte my cascading fury had congealed into cold resolve. I'd done nothing inappropriate and I would clear my name. I would find out what this grievance was,
