The helicopter victim was a thirty-two-year-old man named Connolly Sanford. His first stint as a director would be his last. And his funeral would definitely be closed casket.
While Larabee autopsied Sanford’s body, I examined what remained of his head. Which wasn’t much. Other than some portions of right parietal and occipital, the largest chunk recovered was the size of an ear. Both of which I had.
ID wasn’t in question, since an entire film crew had witnessed the event. Nor was manner of death. Larabee just wanted confirmation that the cranial trauma was entirely the work of the chopper.
Larabee was still at it when I finished at three. After cleaning up and changing from scrubs, I phoned Marlene Penny at WCU to ask about the Lost Cove Cliffs bones. Got rolled to voice mail. Left a message asking that she call me.
Before leaving, I reported to Larabee that I’d found no hidden bullets, no poisoned darts, nothing to suggest any villains save the chopper blade and very bad footwork. He thanked me, looking exhausted. I wished him a good weekend, then bolted before he could remember his annoyance over the Burke County caper. Or ask how I intended to follow up.
Ramsey called while I was brushing my teeth. I confirmed that I was good to go as planned.
I thought about phoning Ryan. Talking to him always boosted my spirits. Always helped me rearrange my thoughts into more productive patterns. Almost always. At that moment I hadn’t the energy to deflect talk of cohabitation. Or vows. Instead, I turned off my ringer.
My body’s exhaustion quickly overwhelmed my mind’s agitation. Sleep descended like a thick wool blanket.
A good thing. The next day lasted about three months.
Birdie, up before the alarm, persuaded me to wake by chewing my hair.
The cat feigned starvation, so we moved directly to breakfast. As he crunched Science Diet, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and downed high test strong enough to hold the spoon upright.
Satiated, Bird scouted locales for his first morning nap. I filled a thermos with the remaining coffee, then made sandwiches and snugged them into my pack, all the while marveling at the presence of salami and cheese in the fridge. I had zero recall of buying either.
As I prepped, opposing feelings vied inside me. It was Saturday. Duke was playing Carolina in the NCAA final four, and I wanted to stay home, order pizza, and watch the game. I wanted to determine the identity of ME229-13.
Back in my room, I checked the weather forecast on my mobile. Charlotte was looking at sunny skies and a max of forty-five degrees. An icon indicated two missed calls. I clicked over.
Ryan had phoned but left no message. The familiar nagging guilt knocked softly. I refused it entry.
Hazel Strike had phoned. She asked that I call her back.
Knowing it would be colder at higher elevations, I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee, wool socks, and field boots. Grabbing an extra sweater, I jammed the phone into my pocket and clumped downstairs. A moment gathering outerwear and my backpack, then I set off. It was 6:45 A.M.
I drove I-85 south to Gastonia, then 321 north to Hickory and onto I-40 west. The skyscrapers of the city, then the cookie cutter homes and strip malls of the burbs, slid by in the darkness around me. I paid no attention. My thoughts were on Mama. And Ramsey. And a place high in the mountains I’d never seen.
By the time I reached Morganton, the world beyond my windshield was a Monet canvas of muted ambers and greens. Utility poles, trees, and fence posts threw long fun-house shadows across the road and the fields stretching from each shoulder.
I rode north on 181 to Jonas Ridge, then cut left and looped back southwest on NC 183. Winding through the Pisgah National Forest for the second time in a week, I passed only four other vehicles. I counted.
Eventually I spotted a sign pointing the way to Wiseman’s View. I turned onto Route 1238, a forest service access road, gravel and barely wide enough for one car. I was just a few miles from the tiny community of Linville Falls.
After four miles of sharp turns and steep changes in gradient, which I can’t say I enjoyed, a second sign appeared among the foliage. I turned in to a paved parking area, wondering how many automotive parts and dental restorations had rattled loose.
Surprisingly, several cars were present—a red Camry, a pickup with a crack running the windshield in the shape of Cape Cod, a silver Audi A3, a black SUV. The sheriff’s department logo on the SUV told me Ramsey and Gunner had already arrived. I got out and looked around. Neither deputy nor dog was in sight.
The air was brittle with early morning chill. Not the damp Quebec cold that seizes your breath and numbs your face in seconds. But cold enough. And a biting breeze was swirling through the mountains around me.
I slipped into my jacket, then tucked the sweater, cap, and gloves into my pack. After taking my kit from the trunk, I stood a moment to listen.
And heard a symphony of tiny noises. The tic-tic-tic of my car’s cooling engine. The steady in and out of my own breathing. The scratch of branches overhead.
I glanced up. The wind was playing hell with a thrush working hard at construction.
Wishing the bird luck, I crossed to an opening in the trees beyond the SUV. It led to a walkway, narrow and, for the moment, paved with crumbling asphalt. The terrain plunged steeply beyond a rusty guardrail contouring its right side. Within yards, the trail cut left, hugging the mountain, and out of sight.
I pride myself on being unflappable. Mostly it’s true. But, full disclosure, one thing flaps me: unprotected heights. It’s not the fall I fear, it’s the hard landing.
Heart beating a little too fast, I adjusted the pack’s shoulder straps, tightened my grip on the kit, and stepped onto the trailhead. The mixed pine and deciduous forest was so thick it was like crossing into a trompe l’oeil mural built of shadow and light. From far below came the sound of energetic water.
I advanced, boot heels scraping loud in the crisp morning air. Here and there, a slash of sunlight strobed to the asphalt and I caught glimpses of the steep drop-off to my right.
Fifty yards ahead I heard footsteps and stopped. In seconds a couple appeared walking single file toward me. She strode confidently, gaze bouncing all around. He moved cautiously, eyes straight ahead. I pressed my back to the cliff face to let them pass.
As the sound of their movement receded, I listened again. Nothing but the muted rush of water.
Another hundred yards, and the walkway ended at a rock outcropping surrounded by the same rusty guardrail. Pulpits had been constructed on two sides, oriented toward points of interest. Four people stood near the one facing west, three gathered close, one off by himself. The three had done their shopping at L.L.Bean. The loner looked like a T. rex dressed for a hike.
Ramsey was elbow-leaning the rail opposite, Gunner at his side.
“Good morning, Carolina!” I called out in a muted Robin Williams DJ voice, the bravado meant mostly to steady my own nerves.
The dog’s ears shot up, then, purple tongue dangling, he trotted forward to meet me. I patted his head.
The deputy watched my approach for a few seconds, then his head swiveled back to the vista he’d been admiring. For a moment we both gazed in silence.
“We’re looking east toward Linville Gorge.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“One of the deepest canyons in the eastern U.S. And one of the most rugged. Know why it’s here?”
I shook my head.
“The Linville River starts high up on Grandfather Mountain, plunges two thousand feet in just twelve miles before leveling out in the Catawba Valley. All that pounding water carved right through the rock.”
“How far are we above the river?”
“Roughly fifteen hundred feet, mostly straight down.” A beat, then, “Ever hear of William and John Linville?”