Again the head movement.
“Sheriff, do you know who owns property about a quarter mile west of the crash site? A house with a walled garden?”
She gazed at me, the eyes like pale green marbles.
“I was born in these mountains, been sheriffing here almost seven years. Until you came along I had no idea there was anything up that hollow but pine.”
“I don't suppose we could get a warrant, have a look inside.”
“Don't suppose.”
“Isn't it odd that no one knows about the place?”
“Folks keep to themselves up here.”
“And die in their beds.”
Back at High Ridge House, I took Boyd for a long walk. Or he took me. The chow was psyched, sniffing and baptizing every plant and rock along the road. I enjoyed myself on the downhill lap, awed by soft-focus mountains rolling to the horizon like a Monet landscape. The air was cool and moist, smelling of pine, and loam, and traces of smoke. The trees were alive with the twitter of birds settling in for the night.
The uphill run was another story. Still enthused, Boyd continued to pull on the leash like White Fang mushing across the Arctic. By the time we reached his pen my right arm was dead and my calves ached.
I was closing the gate when I heard Ryan's voice.
“Who's your friend?”
“Boyd. And he's seriously vicious.” I was still out of breath, and the words came out chopped and ragged.
“In training for extreme dog walking?”
“Have a good night, boy,” I said to the dog.
Boyd concentrated on crunching small brown pellets that looked like petrified jerky.
“You talk to dogs, but not to your old partner?”
I turned and looked at him.
“How ya doing, little fella?”
“Don't even think of scratching my ears. I'm doing well. And yourself?”
“Splendid. We were never partners.”
“Did you do your age thing?”
“I was right on.”
I checked the lock, then turned to face him. “Sheriff Crowe's got three elderly MPs. Any scoop on the Bates Motel?”
“Nada. No one knows the place exists. If anyone's using it, they must beam themselves in and out. Either that or no one's talking.”
“I'm going to check the tax rolls as soon as the courthouse opens tomorrow. Crowe's following up on the MPs.”
“Tomorrow's Saturday.”
“Damn.” I avoided the impulse to slap my forehead.
Preoccupied with Larke's dismissal of me, I'd lost all track of the days. Government buildings are closed on weekends.
“Damn,” I repeated for emphasis, and turned back toward the house. Ryan fell into step beside me.
“Interesting briefing today.”
“Oh?”
“The NTSB has compiled preliminary damage diagrams. Come to headquarters tomorrow and I'll pull them up for you.”
“Will my presence cause you problems?”
“Call me crazy.”
The investigation had taken over much of the Bryson City area. Up on Big Laurel, work continued at the NTSB command center and temporary morgue established at the crash site. Victim identification was progressing at the incident morgue housed in the Alarka Fire Department, and a family assistance center had been set up at the Sleep Inn on Veterans' Boulevard.
In addition, the federal government had rented space in the Bryson City Fire Department and allotted portions to the FBI, NTSB, ATF, and other organizations. At ten the next morning Ryan and I were seated at a desktop computer in one of the tiny cubicles honeycombing the building's upper floor. Between us were Jeff Lowrey, of the NTSB's cabin-interior documentation group, and Susan Katzenberg of the structures group.
As Katzenberg explained her group's preliminary ground-wreckage diagram, I kept a wary eye out for Larke Tyrell. Though I was with the feds, and not really in violation of Larke's banishment, I didn't want a confrontation.
“Here's the wreckage triangle. The apex is at the crash site, then the trail extends back along the flight path for almost four miles. That's consistent with a parabolic descent from twenty-four thousand feet at approximately four miles per minute climbing to pure vertically down.”
