Are you crazy?
“Boyd, sit!” I pointed a finger and held it on him.
He looked at the oak, back at me, then sat. Never lowering the finger, I picked my way to him and regained the leash.
“Come on, dog breath,” I said, patting his head, then tugging him toward the road.
Boyd twisted and yipped at the oak, then turned back and did the eyebrow thing.
“What
“O.K. Show me.”
I gave him some leash, and he dragged me toward the tree. Two feet from it, he barked and whipped around, eyes shining with excitement. I parted the vegetation with a boot.
A dead squirrel lay among the sow thistle, orbits empty, brown tissue sheathing its bones like a dark, leathery shroud.
I looked at the dog.
“Is this what's got your fur in a twist?”
He dropped on front paws, rump in the air, then rose and took two hops backward.
“It's dead, Boyd.”
The head cocked, and the eyebrow hairs rotated.
“Let's go, mighty tracker.”
The rest of the walk was uneventful. Boyd found no more corpses, and we clocked a much better time on the downhill run. Rounding the last curve I was surprised to see a cruiser parked under the trees at High Ridge House, a Swain County Sheriff 's Department shield on its side.
Lucy Crowe stood on the front steps, a Dr Pepper in one hand, Smokey hat in the other. Boyd went right to her, tail wagging, tongue drooping like a purple eel. The sheriff set her hat on the railing and ruffled the dog's fur. He nuzzled and licked her hand, then curled on the porch, chin on forepaws, and closed his eyes. Boyd the Deadly.
“Nice dog,” said Crowe, wiping a hand on the seat of her pants.
“I'm minding him for a few days.”
“Dogs are good company.”
“Um.”
Obviously, she'd never spent time with Boyd.
“I had a talk with the Wahnetah family. Daniel still hasn't returned.”
I waited while she sipped her soda.
“They say he stood about five-seven.”
“Did he complain about his feet?”
“Apparently he never complained about anything. Didn't talk much at all, liked to be alone. But here's an interesting sidebar. One of Daniel's campsites was out at Running Goat Branch.”
“Where's Running Goat Branch?”
“Spit and a half from your walled enclosure.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“Was he there when he went missing?”
“The family wasn't sure, but that was the first place they checked.”
“I've got another sidebar,” I said, my excitement growing.
I told her about the discriminant function classification placing the foot bones closest to those of Native Americans.
“Now can you get a warrant?” I asked.
“Based on what?”
I ticked off points by raising fingers.
“An elderly Native American went missing in your county. I have a body part fitting that profile. This body part was recovered in proximity to a location frequented by your missing person.”
She cocked an eyebrow, then did her own ticking.
“A body part that might or might not be related to an aviation disaster. An old man who might or might not be dead. A property that might or might not be implicated in either situation.”
The hunch of an anthropologist who might or might not be the spawn of Satan. I didn't say it.
