But today's media delirium had made me apprehensive. Taking a deep breath, I scrolled to Mike Perrigio's number and hit "dial." I was about to click off after seven rings, when a woman picked up. I asked for Mike. There was a long pause. I could hear a lot of racket in the background, a child crying.

When Mike came on, he was brusque, almost cold. My classes were covered. Keep checking in. Dial tone.

I was still staring at the phone when it rang again.

The voice was totally unexpected.

Larke Tyrell asked how I was. He'd heard I was back in Bryson City. Could I meet with him the next day? Zero-nine-hundred at the family assistance center? Good, good. Take care.

Again, I sat staring at the little black handset, not knowing whether to feel crushed or buoyed. My boss at the university obviously knew of the news coverage. That had to be bad. But Larke Tyrell wanted to talk. Had the chief ME come around to my position? Had this other errant tissue persuaded him that the great foot controversy did not involve crash remains?

I reached for the chain on the bedside lamp. Lying in a silence filled with crickets, I felt that my issues were at last being resolved. I was confident of vindication, and never questioned the venue or purpose of the morning's meeting.

That was a mistake.

THE FIRST THING I I NOTICED ON OPENING MY EYES WAS A SHEET OF NOTICED ON OPENING MY EYES WAS A SHEET OF paper wedged against the braided rug. paper wedged against the braided rug.

The clock said seven-twenty. Throwing back the covers, I retrieved the paper and scanned the contents. It was a fax containing six names.

Shivering in panties and T-shirt, I checked the header information: Sender: Office of the Attorney General, State of Delaware. Recipient: Special Agent Byron McMahon. Subject: H&F, LLP. Sender: Office of the Attorney General, State of Delaware. Recipient: Special Agent Byron McMahon. Subject: H&F, LLP.

It was the list of H&F officers. McMahon must have forgotten to mention it the night before and had slipped it under my door. I read the names. Nothing clicked.

Chilled through, I tucked the fax into the outer pocket of my computer case, ran on tiptoes into the bathroom, and hopped into the shower. Reaching for the shampoo, I suffered my first defeat of the day.

Damn! I'd left my groceries in Luke Bowman's truck.

Filling the empty shampoo container with water, I gave my hair a low-lather scrub. After blowing it dry and applying makeup, I slipped on khakis and a white cotton blouse, then checked my image.

The woman in the mirror looked appropriately prim, but a bit too casual. I added a cardigan, buttoned at the top as Katy had instructed. Wouldn't want to look like a dork.

I checked again. Stylish but professional. I hurried downstairs.

Too tense for breakfast, I threw down coffee, fed Boyd the dregs from the Alpo bag, had a nervous tinkle, and collected my purse. I'd just crossed the front door threshold when I stopped short.

I had no wheels.

I was standing on the porch, looking good but feeling panicky, when the door flew open and a boy of about seventeen emerged. His hair was dyed blue and shaved to a single strip running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His nose, eyebrows, and earlobes displayed more metal than a Harley shop.

Ignoring me, the young man clumped down the stairs and disappeared around the house.

Seconds later, Ryan appeared, blowing steam across the top of a mug.

"What's up, buttercup?"

"Who the hell was that kid?"

"The studded Smurf?" He took an experimental sip. "Ruby's nephew, Eli."

"Nice look. Ryan, I hate to ask, but I have a meeting with Tyrell in twenty minutes and just realized I have no car."

He dug into a pocket and tossed me his keys.

"Take mine. I'll ride with McMahon."

"Are you sure?"

"You're not on the rental contract. Don't get arrested."

In the past, family assistance centers were established near accident sites in order to facilitate the transfer of records. This practice was abandoned once psychologists began to recognize the emotional impact on relatives of being in such proximity to the death scene.

The FAC for Air TransSouth 228 was at a Sleep Inn in Bryson City. Ten rooms had been converted into offices by replacing beds and armoires with desks, chairs, telephones, and laptops. It was here that antemortem records had been collected, briefings had been held, and families had been informed of identifications.

All that was finished now. With the exception of a single pair, the rooms that had once swarmed with grieving relatives, NTSB personnel, medical examiner interviewers, and Red Cross representatives had reverted to their original function.

Security was also not what it had been. Pulling into the lot, I was surprised to see journalists chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups, obviously awaiting a breaking story.

So intent was I on a timely arrival, it never crossed my mind that the story was me.

Then, a cameraman shouldered his minicam.

"There she is."

Other cameras went up. Microphones shot out, and shutters clicked like gravel in a power mower.

"Why did you move remains?"

"Did you tamper with disaster victim packets?"

"Dr. Brennan . . ."

"Is it true that evidence is missing from cases you processed?"

"Doctor . . ."

Strobes flashed in my face. Microphones nudged my chin, my forehead, my chest. Bodies pressed against me, moved with me, like a tangle of seaweed clinging to my limbs.

I kept my eyes straight, acknowledging no one. My heart hammered as I pushed forward, a swimmer struggling toward shore. The distance to the motel seemed oceanic, insurmountable.

Then, I felt a strong hand on my arm, and I was in the lobby. A state trooper was locking the glass doors, glaring at the mob outside.

"You all right, ma'am?"

I didn't trust my voice to reply.

"This way, please."

I followed to a bank of elevators. The trooper waited with hands clasped, feet spread as we ascended. I stood on rubbery legs, trying to recompose my thoughts.

"How did the press find out about this?" I asked.

"I wouldn't know that, ma'am."

On the second floor, the trooper walked to Room 201, squared his shoulders to the wall beside the door.

"It's not locked." He fixed his eyes on something that was not me.

Drawing two steadying breaths, I turned the knob and entered.

Seated behind a desk on the far side of the room was North Carolina's second in command. Of a zillion thoughts winging through my mind at that moment, this is the one I remember: Parker Davenport's color had improved since I'd seen him on the day of the crash.

To the lieutenant governor's left sat Dr. Larke Tyrell, to his right, Earl Bliss. The ME looked at me and nodded. The DMORT commander's eyes wouldn't meet mine.

"Dr. Brennan, please have a seat." The lieutenant governor gestured to an armchair directly in front of the desk.

As I sat, Davenport leaned back and laced his fingers on his vest. The view behind him was spectacular, a Smoky Mountain postcard in explosive fall color. Squinting into the glare, I recognized my disadvantage. Had Tyrell been in charge, I'd have known the seating arrangement was strategy. I wasn't sure Davenport was that smart.

"Would you like coffee?" Davenport asked.

"No, thank you."

Looking at Davenport, I had difficulty imagining how he had lasted so long in public office. He was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, smooth nor craggy. His hair and eyes were nondescript brown, his speech flat and without inflection. In a system that elects its leaders based on looks and eloquence, Davenport was clearly a noncontender. In a word, the man was unmemorable. But perhaps this was his greatest asset. People voted for Davenport, then forgot him.

The lieutenant governor unlaced his fingers, examined his palms, then looked at me.

"Dr. Brennan, some very disturbing allegations have been brought to my attention."

"I'm glad we're meeting to clear this up."

"Yes." Davenport leaned into the desk and opened a folder. To its left lay a videocassette. No one spoke as he selected and perused a document.

"Let's get right to the meat of this."

"Let's."

"Did you enter the site of the Air TransSouth crash on October fourth prior to the arrival of NTSB or medical examiner officials?"

"Since I was in the area, Earl Bliss asked me to stop by." I looked at the DMORT commander. His eyes remained on the hands in his lap.

"Did you have official orders to go there?"

"No, sir, but-"

"Did you falsely identify yourself as an official representative of the NDMS?"

"No, I did not."

Davenport checked another paper.

"Did you interfere with local authorities in their search-and-recovery efforts?"

"Absolutely not!" I felt heat rise up my neck and into my face.

"Did you order Deputy Anthony Skinner to remove protective covering from a crash victim, knowing there was risk of animal predation?"

"That's standard protocol."

I turned to Earl and Larke. Neither man was looking at me. Stay calm, I told myself.

"It is alleged that you broke protocol, protocol," Davenport emphasized my word, "by removing remains prior to documentation."

"That was a unique situation requiring immediate action. It was a judgment call, which I explained to Dr. Tyrell."

Davenport leaned farther forward, and his tone grew hard.

"Was stealing those remains also a judgment call?"

"What?"

"The case to which we refer is no longer at the morgue."

"I know nothing about that."

The insipid brown eyes narrowed.

"Really."

Davenport picked up the cassette, crossed to a TV/VCR unit, and inserted it. When he hit "play," a ghostly, gray scene filled the screen, and I knew instantly I was viewing a surveillance tape. I recognized the highway and the entrance to the morgue parking lot.

Within seconds my car entered the frame. A guard waved me away. Primrose appeared, spoke to the guard, tapped her way to the car, and handed me a bag. We exchanged a few words, then she patted my shoulder, and I drove off.

Davenport hit "stop" and rewound the tape. As he returned to his chair, I looked at the other two men. Both were studying me, their faces unreadable.

"Let me summarize," said Davenport. "Following a highly irregular-sequence of events, the specimen in question, the specimen that you claim to have wrested from coyotes, is now missing."

"What does that have to do with me?"

Davenport picked up another paper.

"Early Sunday morning, a data-entry technician named Primrose Hobbs removed fragmented human tissue bearing morgue number 387 from a refrigerated trailer containing cases in process. She then proceeded to the admitting section and withdrew the disaster victim packet associated with those remains. Later that morning, Miss Hobbs was seen transferring a package to you in the morgue parking lot. That transaction was recorded, and we have just observed it."

Davenport drilled me with a look.