Fatal Voyage
Chapters (34)
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Synopsis:
When a plane crashes high in the mountains of North Carolina, Tempe Brennan is one of the first on the scene. As a forensic anthropologist for the state, she is a key member of the disaster response team. The task that confronts her is a sickening one. Placing normal life on hold, she and her coleagues must painstakingly identify the victims. Then comes a chance discovery that concerns her. A severed foot, away from the main crash site, and showing different signs of decomposition. But before she can make any progress, she is thrown off the job, with accusations of malpractice leveled against her. Tempe must fight to save her professional standing. But she fears that, air tragedy aside, another corpse lies somewhere in the woods. Pitting herself against a conspiracy of silence, Tempe vows to bring justice for her mystery victim.
FATAL VOYAGE
Kathy Reichs
The fourth book in the Temperance Brennan series
ISBN 0 7540 2490 3
Copyright © 2001 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.
Dedicated with button-bursting pride to:
Kerry Elisabeth Reichs, J.D., M.P.P., Duke University, Class of 2000
Courtney Anne Reichs, B.A., University of Georgia, Class of 2000
Brendan Christopher Reichs, B.A. (cum laude), Wake Forest University, Class of 2000
Yippee!!!
CHAPTER ONE
I stared at the woman flying through the trees. Her head was forward, chin raised, arms flung backward like the tiny chrome goddess on the hood of a Rols-Royce. But the tree lady was naked, and her body ended at the waist. Blood-coated leaves and branches imprisoned her lifeless torso.
Lowering my eyes, I looked around. Except for the narrow gravel road on which I was parked, there was nothing but dense forest. The trees were mostly pine, the few hardwoods like wreaths marking the death of summer, their foliage every shade of red, orange, and yelow.
Though it was hot in Charlotte, at this elevation the early October weather was pleasant. But it would soon grow cool. I took a windbreaker from the backseat, stood stil, and listened.
Birdsong. Wind. The scurrying of a smal animal. Then, in the distance, one man caling to another. A muffled response.
Tying the jacket around my waist, I locked the car and set off toward the voices, my feet swishing through dead leaves and pine needles.
Ten yards into the woods I passed a seated figure leaning against a mossy stone, knees flexed to his chest, laptop computer at his side. He was missing both arms, and a smal china pitcher protruded from his left temple.
On the computer lay a face, teeth laced with orthodontic wiring, one brow pierced by a delicate gold ring. The eyes were open, the pupils dilated, giving the face an expression of alarm. I felt a tremor beneath my tongue, and quickly moved on.
Within yards I saw a leg, the foot stil bound in its hiking boot. The limb had been torn off at the hip, and I wondered if it belonged to the Rols-Royce torso.