“You're sure?”
“I'll find a kennel.”
Pete squeezed both my arms.
“You're my hero.”
There are twenty-three kennels in the greater Charlotte area. It took an hour to establish that fourteen were fully booked, five did not answer, two could not accommodate a dog over fifty pounds, and two would take no dog without a personal interview.
“Now what?”
Boyd raised and cocked his head, then went back to licking my kitchen floor.
Desperate, I made another call.
Ruby was less fastidious. For three dollars a day the dog was welcome, no personal audience required.
My neighbor took Birdie, and the chow and I hit the road.
Halloween has its roots in the pagan festival of Samhain. Held at the onset of winter and the beginning of the Celtic New Year, Samhain was the time when the veil between living and dead was thinnest, and spirits roamed the land of mortals. Fires were extinguished and rekindled, and people dressed up to frighten away the unfriendly departed.
Though the holiday was still two weeks off, the residents of Bryson City were into the concept in a big way. Ghouls, bats, and spiders were everywhere. Scarecrows and tombstones had been erected in front yards, and skeletons, black cats, witches, and ghosts dangled from trees and porch lights. Jack-o'-lanterns leered from every window in town. A couple of cars had rather realistic replicas of human feet protruding from their trunks. Good time to actually dispose of a body, I thought.
By five I'd settled Boyd into a run behind High Ridge House, and myself into Magnolia. Then I drove to the sheriff 's headquarters.
Lucy Crowe was on the phone when I appeared in her doorway. She waved me into her office, and I took one of two chairs. Her desk filled most of the small space, looking like something at which a Confederate general might have penned military orders. Her chair was also ancient, brown leather and studded, with stuffing oozing from the left arm.
“Nice desk,” I said when she'd hung up.
“I think it's ash.” The sea-foam eyes were just as startling as on our first meeting. “It was made by my predecessor's grandfather.”
She leaned back, and the chair squeaked musically.
“Tell me what I've missed.”
“They say you've damaged the investigation.”
“Sometimes you get bad press.”
Her head did a j-stroke. “What have you got?”
“That foot was walking the earth at least sixty-five years. No one on the plane had that privilege. I need to establish that this was not crash evidence.”
The sheriff opened a folder and spread its contents on her blotter.
“I've got three missing persons. Had four, but one turned up.”
“Shoot.”
“Jeremiah Mitchell, black male, age seventy-two. Disappeared from Waynesville eight months ago. According to patrons at the Mighty High Tap, Mitchell left the bar around midnight to buy hooch. That was February fifteenth. Mitchell's neighbor reported him missing ten days later. He hasn't been seen since.”
“No family?”
“None listed. Mitchell was a loner.”
“Why the neighbor's concern?”
“Mitchell had his ax and the guy wanted it back. Visited the house several times, finally got tired of waiting, went to see if Mitchell was in the drunk tank. He wasn't, so the neighbor filed an MP report, thinking a police search might flush him.”
“And his ax.”
“A man's nothing without his tools.”
“Height?”
She ran a finger down one of the papers.
“Five foot six.”
“That fits. Was he driving?”
“Mitchell was a heavy drinker, traveled by foot. Folks figure he got himself lost and died of exposure.”
“Who else?”
“George Adair.” She read from another form. “White male, age sixty-seven. Lived over to Unahala, disappeared two weeks ago. Wife said he went fishing with a buddy and never came back.”
“What was the buddy's story?”
“Woke one morning and Adair wasn't in the tent. Waited a day, then packed up and went home.”
“Where was this fatal fishing trip?”
“The Little Tennessee.” She swiveled and stabbed at a spot on a wall map behind her. “Up the Nantahala Mountains.”
“Where's Unahala?”
Her finger moved a fraction toward the northeast.
“And where's the crash site?”
Her finger barely moved.
“Who's contestant number three?”
When she turned back, the chair sang another verse.
“Daniel Wahnetah, age sixty-nine, Cherokee from the reservation. Failed to show up for his grandson's birthday on July twenty-seventh. Family reported him missing on August twenty-sixth when he pulled a no-show for his own party.” Her eyes moved down the paper. “No height reported.”
“The family waited a month?”
“Except in winter, Daniel spends most of his time out in the woods. He has a string of camps, works a circuit hunting and fishing.”
She leaned back, and the chair squeaked a tune I didn't know.
“Looks like Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition. If it's one of these guys, nail the race and you've got your man.”
“That's it?”
“Folks pretty much stay put up here. Like the idea of dying in their beds.”
“See if any of these guys had foot problems. Or if they left shoes at home. Sole imprints could be useful. And start thinking about DNA. Head hair. Extracted teeth. Even a toothbrush might be a source if it hasn't been cleaned or reused. If there's nothing left from the victim we could work with a comparison sample from a blood relative.”
She jotted a note.
“And be discreet. If the rest of the body is out there and someone's responsible, we don't want to tip them into finishing what the coyotes began.”
“I hadn't thought of that,” she said, her voice chalky.
“Sorry.”
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.”