Free Fatal Voyage by Kathy Reichs Page B

insisting we head back out, and the pilot kept saying, ”Yes, sir, yes, sir,“ then put that bird

exactly where he wanted.”
     I palmed the chips into my mouth.
     “Then we just worked our way toward the site. I’d say it was maybe a

quarter mile.”
     “It’s a house?”
     “An old cabin or something. I didn’t pay much attention.”
     “Did you see a road?”
     He shook his head. “Why the questions?” I told him about the foot.
     “I didn’t notice a cemetery, but there’s no harm poking around out

there. You sure these were coyotes?”
     “No.”
     “Be safe; take a radio and a can of Mace.”
     “Do coyotes hunt during the day?”
     “Coyotes hunt whenever they feel like it.”
     Great.
     North Carolina’s official tree is the longleaf pine, its official

flower the dogwood. The shad boat, the saltwater bass, and the Eastern box turtle have been

similarly honored. The state boasts wild ponies on the Shackleford Banks and the nation’s highest

suspension bridge at Grandfather Mountain. The Old North State flows from the peaks of the

southern Appalachians in the west, across the hills of the piedmont, to the marshlands, beaches,

and barrier islands along its eastern shore. It is Mount Mitchell and the Outer Banks. Blowing

Rock and Cape Fear.
     Linville Gorge and Bald Head Island.
     North Carolina’s geography splits its residents along ideological

lines.
     The high-country crowd plays recreational roulette mountain biking,

hang gliding, white water kayaking, rock climbing, and, in winter, downhill skiing and

snowboarding. The less reckless go in for golf, antiques, bluegrass music, and the viewing of

foliage.
     Fans of the low country favor salt air, warm sand, ocean fishing, and

Atlantic breakers. Temperatures are mild. The locals have never owned mittens or snow tires.

Except for the occasional shark or renegade gator, the fauna is nonthreatening. Golf, of course,

also permeates the low country.
     While I am awed by the beauty of foaming rivers, cascading falls, and

towering trees, my allegiance has always been to the sea. I prefer ecozones where shorts and

sundresses suffice, and only one layer is needed. Give me a swimsuit catalog and forget Eddie

Bauer. All things considered, I’d rather be at the beach.
     These thoughts drifted through my mind as I circled the debris

field.
     The day was clear but breezy, the smell of decay less apparent. Though

victim recovery was well along, and fewer bodies littered the ground, the big picture looked

relatively unchanged. Bio-suited figures still wandered about and crawled through the wreckage,

though some now wore caps marked FBI.
     I found Larke’s opening and cut into the woods. Though the

high-altitude sunlight was warm, the temperature dropped appreciably when I moved into shadow. I

followed the trail I’d taken the week before, now and then stopping to listen. Branches tapped

and scraped, and dead leaves tumbled across the ground with soft ticking sounds.
     Overhead, a woodpecker drummed a staccato tattoo, paused, repeated

itself.
     I was wearing a bright yellow jacket, wanting to surprise no one, and

hoping the Tommy Hilfiger colors would suggest avoidance to the coyote mind. If not, I’d zap the

furry buggers. Inside my pocket I clutched a small can of Mace.
     At the fallen sourwood, I dropped to one knee and scanned the forest

floor. Then I rose and looked around. Other than my Louisville Slugger branch, there was no hint

of my can id adventure.
     I continued along the subtle passageway. The ground was slightly

concave, and I had to take care not to turn an ankle on a rock hidden beneath leaves. Though

lower than the surrounding scrub, the vegetation at times rose almost to my knees.
     I kept my eyes roving, watching for critters or signs of interment.
     Larke’s house meant human settlement, and I knew that old farmsteads

often included family burials.