“I’m beholden, ma’am. In the meantime, how about I hep you out in the shower?”
“One condition.”
“Anything you say, ma’am.”
“Loose the Chester bit.”
Webothsprinted naked to the bathroom.
Two hours later I was heading toward the Cowans Ford bridge. Ryan was beside me. Boyd was doing his bird dog routine in back. My car’s AC was whirring at “max.” I hoped I would recognize the turnoff.
Noting the high ceiling and clear sky, I pictured Harvey Pearce and wondered why the man had augered into a visible rock face on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
I pictured the macabre black residue coating Pearce and his passenger, and wondered again what that substance could be.
I also wondered about the passenger’s parentage. And about his odd nasal lesion.
“What are you thinking?” Ryan pushed Boyd’s snout from his ear.
Boyd shot to the window behind me.
“I thought men hated to be asked that question.”
“I’m not like other guys.”
“Real y.” I cocked an eyebrow.
“I know the names of at least eight colors.”
“And?”
“I don’t kil my own meat.”
“Hmm.”
“Thinking about last night?” Ryan flashed his eyebrows. I think he was picking the schtick up from Boyd.
“Something happen last night?” I asked.
“Or tonight?” Ryan gave me the have-I-ever-got-something-in-mind-for-you look.
Yes! I thought.
“I was thinking about the Cessna crash,” I said.
“What troubles you, buttercup?”
“The passenger was in back.”
“Why was that? No upgrades?”
“There was no right front seat. He flew forward on impact. Why wasn’t he buckled in?”
“Didn’t want to wrinkle his leisure suit?”
I ignored that.
“And where was the right front seat?”
“Blasted out on impact?”
“I didn’t see it among the wreckage.” I spotted the turnoff and made a left. “Neither Jansen nor Gul et mentioned one.”
“Gul et?”
“Davidson PD. The local cop on the scene.”
“Could the seat have been removed for repairs?”
“I suppose that’s a possibility. The plane wasn’t new.”
I described the black gunk. Ryan thought a moment.
“Don’t you people cal yourselves tarheels?”
For the rest of the trip I listened only to Public Radio.
When I pul ed up at the farm adjoining McCranies’, vehicles clogged one side of the road. This time the assemblage included Tim Larabee’s Land Rover, a police cruiser, the CMPD crime scene truck, and the MCME transport van.
Two kids watched from the opposite shoulder, spindly legs hanging from cutoff jeans, fishing gear strapped to their bikes. Not bad as far as gawkers go.
But it was stil early, just past eight. Others would arrive once our little army was spotted. Passersby, the neighbors, perhaps the media, al salivating for a glimpse of the misfortune of others.
Larabee was standing on the lawn with Joe Hawkins, two CMPD uniforms, one black, one white, and the pair of crime scene unit techs who’d helped recover the bear bones.