Ruby stood in the hall, her features looking solemn and deeply creased. She wore a gray flannel robe, pink socks, and brown slippers shaped like paws. Her hands were clasped at chest level, fingers tightly interlaced.
“I'm about to turn in.” I smiled.
She gazed at me gravely.
“I've had dinner,” I added.
One hand rose, as if to pluck something from the air. It trembled slightly.
“What is it, Ruby?”
“The devil assumes many forms.”
“Yes.” I wanted desperately to bathe and sleep. “But I'm sure you're way ahead of him.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped back and the hands found each other again.
“They fly with Lucifer in the face of divinity. They blaspheme.”
“Who does?”
“They've grasped the keys of Hades and of death. Just like it says in Revelations.”
“Ruby, please speak to me in plain English.”
Her eyes were wide, the nodes in the corners pink and shiny with moisture.
“You're from foreign parts so you can't be knowing.”
“Knowing what?” Irritation curled the edges of my voice. I was not in a mood for parables.
“There's evil here.”
The beer?
“Detective Ryan an—”
“Wicked men scoff at the Almighty.”
This was going nowhere.
“Let's talk about this tomorrow.”
I grasped the doorknob, but a hand flew out and clutched my arm. Calluses scratched the sleeve of my nylon jacket.
“The Lord God has sent a sign.”
She drew even closer.
“Death!”
Gently prying loose the bony fingers, I squeezed Ruby's hand and stepped back. I watched her through the gap as the door swung shut, her small body frozen, the sausage curl crawling her skull like a dull, gray serpent.
THE NEXT DAY HONORED SOMEONE. CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, I think. By midmorning it had turned into a nightmare.
I drove to the morgue through mist so thick it obliterated the mountains, and worked until ten-thirty. When I broke for coffee, Larke Tyrell was in the staff room. He waited while I filled a cup with industrial sludge and added white powder.
“There's something we need to talk about.”
“Sure.”
“Not here.” He looked at me a long time. The look meant something, and I felt a prick of anxiety.
“What is it, Larke?”
“Come on.”
Taking my arm, he propelled me out the back door.
“Tempe, I don't know how to say this.” He swirled his coffee, and iridescent clouds slid across the surface.
“Just say it.” I kept my voice low and level.
“There's been a complaint.”
I waited.
“I feel terrible about this.” He studied his cup a few more seconds, then raised his eyes to mine. “It's about you.”
“Me?” I was incredulous.
He nodded.
“What did I do?”
“The complaint cites unprofessional behavior of a nature sufficient to compromise the investigation.”
“Such as?”
“Entering the site without authority and mishandling evidence.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“And trespass.”
“Trespass?” A cold fist was closing around my gut.
“Did you poke around that property we talked about?”
“It wasn't trespass. I wanted to talk to the owners.”
“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. Vile. Despicable. Vicious. Other drivers avoided my eyes and gave me lots of space.
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, quash it, and finish my work. And I would confront the accuser.
My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one to hold me and tell me I'd be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was. Ryan had told me it was none of my business. Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.
Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid coming off a tantrum. I'd accomplished nothing and felt drained. Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone messages.
Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry, calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and Ted were leaving for London?
Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.
Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy's soccer years. The house is painted, the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no obligation to protect area real estate values. I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me of that.