Crowe shrugged. "I'm not sure. But you're out of that investigation."

"Am I allowed to go to the public library?" I spat.

The sheriff rubbed the back of her neck and rested a boot on the bottom step. Beneath her jacket I could see the bulge of a gun.

"There's something very wrong here, Sheriff."

"I'm listening."

"My room was ransacked yesterday."

"Theories?"

I told her about the figurines in the bathtub.

"Not exactly a Hallmark greeting."

"It's probably that Boyd's annoying someone." I said it hopefully, but didn't really believe my own words.

Boyd's ears shot forward at the sound of his name. I gave him a slice of bacon.

"Is he a barker?"

"Not really. I asked Ruby if he makes noise when I'm away. She said he howls a bit, but nothing extraordinary."

"What does Ruby say about it?"

"Satan's minions."

"Maybe you have something that someone wants."

"Nothing was taken, though all my files were thrown around. The whole room was trashed."

"Did you keep notes on this foot?"

"I'd taken them with me to Oak Ridge."

She looked at me a full five seconds, then nodded her nod.

"Makes that Volvo episode a little more suspect. You watch yourself."

Oh yes.

Crowe leaned over and brushed off the toe of her boot, then looked at her watch.

"I'll see if I can get the DA to push harder."

At that moment Ryan's rental car appeared in the valley. The driver's-side window was open and his silhouette looked dark against the car's interior. We watched him climb the mountain and turn into the drive. Moments later he strode up the path, his face looking drawn and tense.

"What is it?"

I heard Crowe's hat brush the top of her thigh.

Ryan hesitated a beat, then, "There's still no sign of Jean's body."

I could read naked misery in his demeanor. And more. Selfimposed guilt. The conviction that his absence from the partnership had caused Bertrand to be on that plane. Detectives without partners are limited in what they can investigate. That makes them available for courier duty.

"They'll find him," I said softly.

Ryan let his eyes rove the horizon, his back rigid, his neck muscles tight as twisted ropes. After a full minute, he shook out and lit a cigarette, cupping the flame in both hands.

"How did your afternoon go?" He flicked the match.

I told him about Crowe's meeting with the magistrate.

"Your foot may be a dead issue."

"What do you mean?"

He blew smoke through his nostrils, then pulled something from his jacket pocket.

"They also found this."

He unfolded a paper and handed it to me.

I STARED, FIRST IN CONFUSION, THEN IN DAWNING COMPREHENSION. STARED, FIRST IN CONFUSION, THEN IN DAWNING COMPREHENSION.

Ryan had given me a composite produced on a color printer. There were three images, each showing a fragment of plastic. In the first I could make out the letters b-i-o-h-a-z. b-i-o-h-a-z. In the second, a truncated phrase: In the second, a truncated phrase: -aboratory servic-. -aboratory servic-. A red symbol practically leaped from the third picture. I'd seen dozens at the lab, and recognized it instantly. A red symbol practically leaped from the third picture. I'd seen dozens at the lab, and recognized it instantly.

I looked at Ryan.

"It's a biohazard container."

He nodded.

"Which wasn't on the manifest."

"No."

"And everyone thinks it held a foot."

"Opinion is running in that direction."

Boyd nudged my hand, and I absently held out the rest of the sandwich. He looked at me, as though assuring himself there was no mistake, then took the booty and moved off, opting for distance in case it was a misunderstanding, after all.

"So they're admitting that the foot does not belong to any passenger."

"Not exactly. But they're opening up to the possibility."

"What does this do to the warrant?" I asked Crowe.

"It won't help."

She pushed back from the step, stood with feet apart, and replaced her hat.

"But something's reeking under that wall, and I intend to find out what."

She gave her Sheriff Crowe head dip, turned, and walked up the path. Moments later we saw her bubble top wending down the mountain.

I felt Ryan's stare and brought my gaze back to him.

"Why did the magistrate nix the warrant?"

"Apparently the guy's a candidate for the Flat Earth Society. On top of that, he'll issue a warrant for obstruction if I so much as shed a skin cell." My cheeks burned with anger.

Boyd crossed the porch, snout down, head moving from side to side. Reaching the swing, he sniffed up my leg, then sat and stared at me with his tongue out.

Ryan drew on his cigarette, flicked it onto the lawn. Boyd's eyes shifted sideways, then back to me.

"Did you find out about H&F?"

Ryan had gone to his "office" to phone Delaware.

"I thought the request might be processed more expeditiously if it came from the FBI, so I asked McMahon to make the call. I'll be at the reassembly site all afternoon but I can ask him tonight."

Reassembly. The piecing together of the airplane as it had been before the event. Total reassembly is a tremendous drain on time, money, and manpower, of which the NTSB had precious little. They do not attempt it in every major, do so reluctantly when public clamor demands. They undertook it with TWA 800 because the Brits had done it with Pan Am 102, and they didn't want to be outperformed.

With fifty dead students, reassembly was a given.

For the past two weeks trucks had been carrying the wreckage from Air TransSouth 228 across the mountains to a rented hangar at the Asheville airport. Parts were being laid out on grids corresponding to their positions on the Fokker-100. Parts that could not be associated with specific sections of the plane were being sorted according to structure type. Unidentifiable parts were being sorted according to position of recovery at the crash site.

Eventually, every scrap would be cataloged and subjected to a range of tests, then reassembled around a wood-and-wire frame. Over time an aircraft would take shape, like a slow-motion reverse, with a million fragments drawing together to form a recognizable object.

I'd visited reassembly sites on other crashes, and could picture the tedious scene. In this case the process would move more quickly since Air TransSouth 228 had not been driven into the ground. The plane had come apart in midair and plummeted to earth in large pieces.

But I would not see it. I was exiled. My face must have registered my despondency.

"I can put off the meeting." Ryan laid a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm O.K."

"What are you going to do this afternon?"

"I'm going to sit here and finish my lunch with Boyd. Then I'm going to drive into town and buy dog food, razors, and shampoo."

"Will you be all right?"

"I may have trouble finding the ones with double blades. But I'll persevere."

"You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan."

"See. I'm fine."

I managed a weak smile.

"Go to your meeting."

When he'd gone, I gave Boyd the last of the fries.

"Any preferred brands?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

I suspected Boyd would eat just about anything but boiled eggs.

I was stuffing wrappers into the carry-out bag when Ruby shot out the front door and grabbed my arm.

"Quick! Come quick!"

"What is-"

She dragged me off the swing and into the house. Boyd danced along, nipping at my jeans. I wasn't sure if it was Ruby's urgency that excited him or his entry onto forbidden turf.

Ruby pulled me straight to the kitchen, where an ironing board stood with a pair of Levi's draped across it. A wicker basket rested below, heaped to the rim with crumpled laundry. Neatly pressed garments hung from cabinet knobs around the room.

Ruby pointed to a twelve-inch black-and-white TV on a counter opposite the board. A ribbon at the bottom of the screen announced fast-breaking news. A newscaster spoke above the graphic, his face grim, his voice serene. Though reception was poor, I had no trouble identifying the figure over his left shoulder.

The room receded around me. I was aware of nothing but the voice and the snowy picture.

". . . an inside source revealed that the anthropologist has been dismissed, and that an investigation is under way. Charges have not yet been filed, and it is unclear if the crash investigation has been compromised, or if victim identifications have been affected. When contacted, Dr. Larke Tyrell, North Carolina's chief medical examiner, had no comment. In other news . . ."

"That's you, isn't it?"

Ruby brought me back.

"Yes," I said.

Boyd had stopped racing around the kitchen and was sniffing the floor below the sink. His head came up when I spoke.