Her voice was as soothing as a Brandenburg Concerto.

"In the meantime, you just take one day at a time. One damn day at a time."

With that she turned and set off toward the morgue.

I'd rarely heard Primrose Hobbs curse.

Back in my room, I pulled out the chapter, flipped to Table IV, plugged in the measurements, and did the math.

The foot classified as American Indian.

I calculated again, using a second function.

Though closer to the cluster for African Americans, the foot still fell with the Native Americans.

George Adair was white, Jeremiah Mitchell was black. So much for the missing fisherman and the man who'd borrowed his neighbor's ax.

Unless he'd wandered back to the reservation, Daniel Wahnetah was looking like a match.

I checked my watch. Ten forty-five. Late enough.

The sheriff was not in. No. They would not phone her at home. No. They would not give out her pager number. Was this an emergency? They would relay the message that I had called.

Damn. Why hadn't I gotten Crowe's pager number?

For the next two hours I engaged in irrelevant activity, directed by the brain for tension relief rather than goal attainment. Behaviorists call it displacement.

Following a laundry session involving panties in the bathroom sink, I sorted and organized the contents of my briefcase, deleted temporary files from my laptop, balanced my checkbook, and rearranged Ruby's glass animal collection. I then phoned my daughter, sister, and estranged husband.

Pete did not answer, and I assumed he was still in Indiana. Katy did not answer, and I made no assumptions. Harry kept me on the phone for forty minutes. She was quitting her job, having trouble with her teeth, and dating a man named Alvin from Denton. Or was it Denton from Alvin?

I was testing the ring options on my phone when a strange baying arose from the yard, like a hound in a Bela Lugosi movie. Peering through the screen, I saw Boyd seated in the middle of his run, head thrown back, a wail rising from his throat.

"Boyd."

He stopped howling and looked around. Far down the mountain I heard a siren.

"I'm up here."

The dog stood and cocked his head, then the purple tongue slid out.

"Look up, boy."

Reverse cock.

"Up!" I clapped my hands.

The chow spun, ran to the end of the pen, sat, and resumed his love song to the ambulance.

The first thing one notices on meeting Boyd is his disproportionately large head. It was becoming clear that the dog's cranial capacity was in no way related to the size of his intellect.

Grabbing jacket and leash, I headed out.

The temperature was still warm, but the sky was slowly filling with dark-centered clouds. Wind flapped my jacket and gusted leaves and pine needles across the gravel road.

This time we did the uphill lap first, Boyd charging ahead, huffing and coughing as the collar tightened across his larynx. He raced from tree to tree, sniffing and squirting, while I gazed into the valley below, each of us enjoying the mountain in our own way.

We'd gone perhaps a half mile when Boyd froze and his head shot up. The fur went stiff along his spine, his mouth half opened, and a growl rose from the back of his throat, a sound quite different from the siren display.

"What is it, boy?"

Ignoring my question, the dog lunged, ripping the leash from my grip, and charged into the woods.

"Boyd!"

I stamped my foot and rubbed my palm.

"Damn!"

I could hear him through the trees, barking like he was on scrap yard sentry duty.

"Boyd, come back here!"

The barking continued.

Cursing at least one creature that creepeth, I left the road and followed the noise. I found him ten yards in, dashing back and forth, yapping at the base of a white oak.

"Boyd!"

He continued running, barking, and snapping at the oak.

"BOYD!"

He skidded to a stop and looked in my direction.

Dogs have fixed facial musculature, making them incapable of expression. They cannot smile, frown, grimace, or sneer. Nevertheless, Boyd's eyebrows made a movement that clearly communicated his disbelief.

Are you crazy?

"Boyd, sit!" I pointed a finger and held it on him.

He looked at the oak, back at me, then sat. Never lowering the finger, I picked my way to him and regained the leash.

"Come on, dog breath," I said, patting his head, then tugging him toward the road.

Boyd twisted and yipped at the oak, then turned back and did the eyebrow thing.

"What is is it?" it?"

Rrrrup. Rup. Rup.

"O.K. Show me."

I gave him some leash, and he dragged me toward the tree. Two feet from it, he barked and whipped around, eyes shining with excitement. I parted the vegetation with a boot.

A dead squirrel lay among the sow thistle, orbits empty, brown tissue sheathing its bones like a dark, leathery shroud.

I looked at the dog.

"Is this what's got your fur in a twist?"

He dropped on front paws, rump in the air, then rose and took two hops backward.

"It's dead, Boyd."

The head cocked, and the eyebrow hairs rotated.

"Let's go, mighty tracker."

The rest of the walk was uneventful. Boyd found no more corpses, and we clocked a much better time on the downhill run. Rounding the last curve I was surprised to see a cruiser parked under the trees at High Ridge House, a Swain County Sheriff 's Department shield on its side.

Lucy Crowe stood on the front steps, a Dr Pepper in one hand, Smokey hat in the other. Boyd went right to her, tail wagging, tongue drooping like a purple eel. The sheriff set her hat on the railing and ruffled the dog's fur. He nuzzled and licked her hand, then curled on the porch, chin on forepaws, and closed his eyes. Boyd the Deadly.

"Nice dog," said Crowe, wiping a hand on the seat of her pants.

"I'm minding him for a few days."

"Dogs are good company."

"Um."

Obviously, she'd never spent time with Boyd.

"I had a talk with the Wahnetah family. Daniel still hasn't returned."

I waited while she sipped her soda.

"They say he stood about five-seven."

"Did he complain about his feet?"

"Apparently he never complained about anything. Didn't talk much at all, liked to be alone. But here's an interesting sidebar. One of Daniel's campsites was out at Running Goat Branch."

"Where's Running Goat Branch?"

"Spit and a half from your walled enclosure."

"No shit."

"No shit."

"Was he there when he went missing?"

"The family wasn't sure, but that was the first place they checked."

"I've got another sidebar," I said, my excitement growing.

I told her about the discriminant function classification placing the foot bones closest to those of Native Americans.

"Now can you get a warrant?" I asked.

"Based on what?"

I ticked off points by raising fingers.

"An elderly Native American went missing in your county. I have a body part fitting that profile. This body part was recovered in proximity to a location frequented by your missing person."

She cocked an eyebrow, then did her own ticking.

"A body part that might or might not be related to an aviation disaster. An old man who might or might not be dead. A property that might or might not be implicated in either situation."

The hunch of an anthropologist who might or might not be the spawn of Satan. I didn't say it.

"Let's at least go to his camp and look around," I pushed.

She thought a moment, then looked at her watch.

"That I can do."

"Give me five minutes." I gestured at Boyd.

She nodded.

"Come on, boy."

The head came up and the eyebrows puckered.

A ping in my mind. The dead squirrel. My line of work makes me unusually sensitive to the smell of putrefaction, yet I hadn't detected a trace. Boyd went ballistic at ten yards.

"Could the dog ride along?" I asked. "He's not cadaver-trained, but he's pretty good at sniffing out carrion."

"He sits in back."

I opened the door and whistled. Boyd bounded over and leaped in.