Crowe's hand flew to her mouth.

A face, purple and bloated, eyes milky and half closed. Cracked lips, a bulging tongue pressed to the plastic like a giant leech.

Noticing an oval object at the base of the throat, I brought my light close. A pendant. I puled out my knife and slit the plastic. The hiss of escaping gas was folowed by an overpowering stench of putrefaction. My stomach recoiled, but I didn't pul back.

Holding my breath, I teased back the plastic with the tip of the knife.

A male silhouette was clearly visible on a smal silver medal, arms crossed piously at the throat. Engraved letters formed a halo around the head. I held the light obliquely to bring out the name.

Saint Blaise.

We had found the missing fisherman with the ailing throat. George Adair.

===OO=OOO=OO===

This time I suggested a different route. Crowe agreed. Leaving Bobby and George to secure the site, the sheriff and I drove to Bryson City and puled Byron McMahon from a footbal game he was watching on the parlor TV at High Ridge House. Together we prepared an affidavit, which the special agent took directly to a federal magistrate judge in Ashevile.

In less than two hours McMahon caled Crowe. Based on the probability of a hate crime, and on the possible involvement of federal lands, due to the proximity of a reservation and national parks, a search warrant had been issued.

It fel to me to phone Larke Tyrel.

I found the ME at home, and, from background noise, guessed he was involved with the same footbal game.

Though Larke's words were cordial, I could tel my cal unnerved him. I did not take time to assuage his anxiety, or to apologize for the lateness of the hour.

The ME listened while I explained the situation. Finaly, I stopped. Silence stretched so long I thought we'd been disconnected.

'Larke?'

When he spoke again, his tone had changed.

'I want you to handle this. What do you need?'

I told him.

'Can you pick it up at the incident morgue?'

'Yes.'

'Do you want personnel?'

'Who's stil there?'

'Maggie and Stan.'

Maggie Burroughs and Stan Fryeburg were death investigators with the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hil, deployed to Bryson City for the processing of Air TransSouth 228. Both were graduates of my body recovery workshop at the university, and both were excelent.

'Tel them to be ready at seven.'

'Roger.'

'This has nothing to do with the plane crash, Larke.'

'I know that. But these are dead bodies in my state.'

There was another long pause. I heard an overwrought announcer, a cheering crowd.

'Tempe, I—'

I did not help him out.

'This has gone too goddamned far.'

I listened to a dial tone.

What the hel did that mean?

I had other things to worry about.

===OO=OOO=OO===