“Yep.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t, who will?”
“I appreciate what you’ve done. But it’s time to hand the investigation off to professionals.”
“Yeah? They kicked free any leads?”
So far no one I’d contacted gave a rat’s ass. I kept that to myself.
“Well, I have.” Strike allowed a lengthy silence, perhaps to show who was in charge. “Remember the youngest Teague kid? The one I didn’t know what become of?”
“Eli.”
“Little Eli died shortly after his twelfth birthday.”
“Died how?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get access to medical files.”
“Children die. It could mean nothing.”
“Or it could mean something.”
“How did you learn about his death?”
“I have my ways.”
“When are you going?”
“Plan to be there by eight A.M.”
I thought of the reaming I’d get from Larabee. And of the damage Strike might do should additional evidence or remains still lie on that mountain.
Digging a small spiral from my purse. “Give me directions.”
Strike did. I jotted them.
“Do nothing until I arrive,” I said. “And bring the recording.”
“Never hurts to say please.”
The line went dead.
I sat a moment, iPhone warm in my hand. Was Strike onto something? Had one of Teague’s parents harmed Eli? Had one of them killed Cora then tossed her body from the overlook?
Or was I being drawn into a lunacy that existed only in the mind of Hazel Strike?
I didn’t want to go to that mountain.
But something told me that not going would be a big, big mistake.
I made a decision.
Thumbed a button on my mobile and waited.
In the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, on the border between Burke and Caldwell counties, a hunk of igneous and metamorphic rock buckles up from the lush greenery of the Pisgah National Forest. As summits go, the buckle isn’t all that impressive, 2,600 feet high and a mile and a half long. But the wee peak has inspired Cherokee myths, folk legends, scientific studies, websites, YouTube footage, a modest tourist industry, and at least one popular song. It appears on every list of haunted sites in North America. All because of oddball lights.
For centuries, mysterious illuminations have been observed above and on Brown Mountain. According to eyewitness accounts, the small fiery orbs appear, rise to a fair height, then vanish below the ridgeline. Hundreds have reported seeing the lights, including locals, visitors, and those who have traveled to North Carolina for just that purpose.
Theories abound. The reflection of fires at moonshine stills. Swamp gas. Lantern-bearing Cherokee widows searching for the souls of husbands lost in battle.
The “ghost lights” have merited two investigations by the United States Geological Survey, the first in 1913, another in 1922. Official reports attributed the phenomenon to locomotives, cars, and occasional brush fires. Many folks don’t buy it. Especially the Cherokee.
As I followed my scribbled directions, which were barely legible, I had no idea I was heading to an overlook specifically constructed for viewing Brown Mountain. Nor was I well informed on the marvelous lights. I learned all of that after arriving, reading a sign, and doing a quick Google query while waiting for the rest of the team.
In the predawn hours, traffic was negligible, so I took the scenic route. I-40 to Morganton, then NC 181 north toward Jonas Ridge and Pineola. As I got on the two-lane, there was enough light to enjoy the view. The foothills and mountainsides were still glazed with frost, giving the landscape an ethereal, sugarcoated appearance. As the sun sent out its first tentative feelers, I watched the gaps between elevations ooze from black to gray to pinkish yellow.
Knowing the turnoff was easy to miss, Strike had provided GPS coordinates. The woman was thorough, I had to give her that. And right. I never saw it coming.
Ninety minutes after leaving Charlotte, my iPhone beeped to let me know that I’d arrived at my destination. I braked, cut from the blacktop, and pulled to a stop in a paved parking area. Mine was the only vehicle present.
After killing the engine, I lowered a window. The air smelled strongly of pine and chilled vegetation, faintly of petroleum caught in gravel scattering the shoulder of the road.
Absolute silence reigned in the woods around me. Not a single bird twittered or cawed a welcome or warning. No small creature rustled the undergrowth hurrying home from a night of hunting or setting out for a breakfast stalk.
I grabbed a jacket from the backseat and slipped on gloves. Then, moving slowly to avoid making noise, I got out of my car. Pointless, since I was alone.
The overlook was bordered by a low steel barrier fitted with signs. I crossed to one, boot heels clicking in the stillness. According to the Burke County Tourism Development Authority, Brown Mountain could be seen directly ahead, Jonas Ridge opposite, behind my back.
I squinted into the far distance. Picked out a smoke-colored smudge riding the horizon. Not a light in sight. But I hadn’t come in pursuit of a selfie with ghostly vapors. Mind kicking into scientist mode, I assessed my surroundings.
If today was typical, the overlook was often deserted. Quick exit from the highway, short walk to the guardrail, quick reentrance to the north- or southbound lane, gone. The overlook was perfect for a body dump.
After nineteen months there was little chance we’d find evidence left by that vehicle. A tire track, a paint chip, a fiber from a carpet or floor mat. For the billionth time, I wondered what on earth I hoped to accomplish.
The sound of an engine caused me to turn.
A black Range Rover was pulling to a stop beside my Mazda. An Avery County Sheriff’s Department logo told me Deputy Ramsey had arrived. A dog’s silhouette was visible in the backseat.
As Ramsey unbuckled his safety belt, I walked toward him. The dog rubbernecked my way, watching through the glass like a New Yorker in a taxi.
“Doctor Brennan?” My name rode a small white cloud coning from Ramsey’s lips.
“Tempe. You must be Deputy Ramsey.”
Yanking off a glove to extend a hand. “Zeb.”
We shook. Ramsey’s grip was strong, but not a testosterone killer. I liked that.
“Sorry this had to fall on you,” I said.
“If you’ve got a dead kid from Avery, that’s my turf.”
“Deputy Ferris was reluctant to reengage.” That was an understatement.
“So I gathered.”
“I hope I haven’t dragged you out here on an April Fool’s errand.”
“If you have, explain it to Gunner.” Ramsey tipped his head in the direction of his canine companion. About whom I had doubts. Which I’d expressed on the phone the previous day.
“You’re sure he’s cadaver qualified?” I asked.
“Cadaver, drug, fugitive. Taught him myself.”
“So you said.” Trying to hide my skepticism. I’ve worked with a lot of cadaver dogs, canines specially trained to locate corpses. It’s a distinct skill, different from sniffing out drugs or tracking live individuals, and requires a distinct training protocol. I’d never encountered a dog that was good at all three tasks. Or one coached by an amateur.
An awkward moment passed.
“Did Deputy Ferris tell you about Hazel Strike?” I asked, wondering how the description had been phrased.
“She did.”
“Strike’s a bit of an odd duck.”
“She running late?” A hint. Ramsey wanted to move this along.
“She said eight. Can we give her a few more minutes?”
Tight nod.
Zeb Ramsey’s features were pleasant enough—brown eyes, straight nose, brows that didn’t meet in the middle. Until he smiled. Then the whole shifted into wonderful alignment.
Whoa-ho.
“May as well make introductions.” Ramsey crossed to the cruiser and opened a rear door.