“Parachutes?”

  “Small cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lilly’s ass. Auntie was a big girl.”

  “Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,” Ryan said. “Good eater.”

  Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pulled free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.”

  Boyd nipped Ryan’s calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.

  “So what went wrong?” I asked.

  “How’s this. They’re flying low over the drop area, close to stall speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can’t steer, loses control. Hello, rock face.”

  “Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn’t.”

  I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.

  “These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Fireball.”

  “Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.” Jansen was with me.

  “But this is still all conjecture,” I said.

  “Not really,” Jansen said.

  I waited.

  “Couple of kids made an interesting discovery yesterday morning.”

  “THREE KIDS WERE RUNNING THEIR DOGS IN A FIELD EAST OF THE crash site early Monday, spotted what they thought was a ghost flapping around on Grandpa’s old tobacco barn.”

  An image. A pilot’s corpse, parachute rising and falling with the wind. Ryan voiced my thought.

  “Lord of the Flies,” he said.

  “Perfect analogy,” Jansen said. “Having pondered the situation over Nehi and Moon Pies, our little geniuses decided to do some sleuthing. When their beastie turned out to be a parachuted packet of white powder, they voted to stash the booty while considering further action.”

  “That action included a broader search,” I guessed.

  “They found three more packets of blow in the woods. Knowing about the Cessna, and being Cops and CSI regulars, they figured good fortune had befallen them.”

  “They called 911 to inquire about a reward.”

  “Phoned around ten this morning. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD contacted the parents, and an open discussion ensued. Bottom line: the kids had four bundles of snort and four parachutes squirreled away in Gramp’s shed.”

  “You’re sure it’s cocaine?” I asked.

  “The stuff will have to be tested. But, yeah, I’d bet my ass it’s coke.”

  “Why would the pilot’s pickup crew leave the stuff behind?”

  “Access to the location is by one narrow, winding road. They probably watched the Cessna go down, figured if they lingered they’d meet emergency responders on their way out. Opting for freedom over fortune, they hauled ass.”

  That made sense.

  “According to our scenario, the last chute opened prematurely,” I said. “Why?”

  “Could have been just lousy luck. Or the blowout could have been caused by an airstream.”

  “How so?”

  “The army airborne has had deaths over the years from parachutes inflating accidentally while the jumper stands in the door. The reserve chute is worn in front, and the whipping airstream sometimes gets inside and rips the pack open, dragging the chute and the jumper out the door prematurely.”

  “Opening the doggy door would have caused an airstream to whip around inside the cabin?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s possible,” Jansen said.

  “But they’d successfully launched four chutes. Why a screwup with the fifth?” I asked.

  “Maybe the last bundle was lighter. Maybe the pax didn’t get the chute wrapped fast enough. Maybe the pilot made a sudden maneuver with the plane.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “The snort was packed in one-foot-square bundles. That was a pretty tight fit for the doggy door. Maybe the last bundle got jammed and the chute blew before they could knock it free,” Ryan suggested.

  “Wouldn’t that leave one bundle in the plane?” I asked.

  “Or under it.” Jansen hesitated a microsecond. “I did find something.”

  “Another packet of drugs?” I asked.

  “Hardly a packet. Mostly ash and melted plastic.”

  “Underneath the wreckage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ash from what?”

  “I’m not sure. But the stuff doesn’t whisper nose candy to me.”

  “Is a mixed payload common?”

  “As a wino with a muscatel buzz.”

  * * *

  When we arrived at the annex Boyd went straight to his bowl.

  Ryan won the toss on which I insisted. Bad idea. While he showered I checked my messages.

  Harry.

  Katy.

  A UNCC colleague.

  One hang-up.

  I tried Lija’s town house. A male voice answered, said my daughter was out, but that she was expected shortly. The voice did not identify itself.

  I left a message, clicked off.

  “And who the hell are you?” I asked the handset. “The intensely engaging Palmer Cousins?” And why didn’t you say so? Are you living at Lija’s town house, too? I didn’t want to think about it.

  Boyd looked up, went back to eating.

  I tried my colleague. He had a question about a graduate thesis that I could not answer.

  Having inhaled every nasty brown nugget in the bowl, Boyd flopped onto his side.

  To call Harry, or not to call Harry?

  My sister doesn’t grasp the concept of the short conversation. Besides, Harry can smell sex over a phone line, and I didn’t want to discuss my recent adventures. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I laid the phone on the table.

  Ryan appeared with Birdie pressed to his chest. The cat’s forepaws and chin rested on his shoulder.

  When I reached out, Birdie turned his head.

  “Aw, come on, Bird.”

  Two unblinking eyes swung my way.

  “You’re a fraud, Birdie.” I stroked the cat’s head. “You’re not even trying to get away.”

  Birdie’s chin went up, and I scratched his throat.

  “If he wanted down,” I said to Ryan, “he’d be doing this pushy-paw thing on your chest.”

  “I found him on the bed.”

  Hearing Ryan’s voice, Boyd scrambled to his feet, tags jangling, toenails scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor.

  Birdie rocketed off Ryan’s chest like a shuttle at Canaveral.

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” I said. “Paper’s in the den. I won’t be long.”

  When I returned, Ryan was at the kitchen table, Observer open to the sports section. He’d finished a Sam Adams and started on a second. Boyd’s chin was on his knee.

  When I entered, both looked up.

  “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine,” Ryan played Bogey to the dog.

  “Thanks, Rick.”

  “Your daughter called.”

  “Oh?” I was surprised Ryan had answered my phone.

  “The thing was lying here, it rang, I answered by reflex. Sorry.”

  “Did she say why she was calling?”

  “I didn’t realize who it was. I told her you were showering. She said it wasn’t important, gave her name, and hung up.”

  So Katy and I both had some ’splaining to do.

  Ryan and I drove to the Selwyn Pub, a tiny tavern just a few blocks from Sharon Hall. To the uninitiated, the brick bungalow looks like a private home, small for Myers Park, but not intolerable.

  Other than a nondescript sign, the only indication that the place is a bar is the assemblage of cars parked where the lawn should be. When I turned in, Ryan looked puzzled, but said nothing.

  Patrons descend on the Selwyn Pub in two shifts. Early evenings it’s free-range professionals knocking back brews before a game, a date, or dinner with June and Wally and the Beaver.

  Later, as the developers and lawyers and accountants head out, students from Queens College pour in. Silk, gabardine, and Italian leather yield to denim, cotton, and hemp sandals. The Benzes, Beemers, and SUVs give way to Hondas, Chevys, and cheaper SUVs.

  Ryan and I arrived in the lull at shift change. I’d been in good spirits after my shower, a bit down over Tamela’s baby and the privy find, but buoyed by Ryan’s presence. Sad-happy. But crossing the pub courtyard, I felt a gloom settling over me.

  I loved having Ryan here, was having a terrific time with him. Why the sadness? No idea. I tried to push the darkness aside.

  Most of the regulars had gone, and only a few tables and barstools were occupied. Feeling less sociable by the minute, I led Ryan to the pub’s single booth.

  I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Ryan chose the evening’s special from a handwritten blackboard above the fireplace: barbecue and fries.

  Diet Coke for me. Pilsner Urquell for Ryan.

  As we waited, Ryan and I rehashed our conversation with Sheila Jansen.

  “Who owns the Cessna?” Ryan asked.

  “A man named Ricky Don Dorton.”

  Ryan’s draft and my Coke arrived. Ryan flashed the waitress a giant Pepsi smile. She beamed him a Jumbo Super Deluxe. My downward spiral gathered speed.

  “Any chance I could have my burger medium rare?” I interrupted the dental exchange.

  “Sure.” Sister Pepsi turned to Ryan. “You all right with Eastern?”

  “Just fine.”

  After smiling the waitress back to the kitchen, Ryan turned to me.

  “What’s geography got to do with barbecue?”

  “The barbecue from down east is made with a vinegar-mustard-based sauce. Western Carolina sauce relies more on the tomato.”

  “That reminds me. What’s ‘swite tay’?”

  “What?”

  “Servers keep offering it to me.”

  Swite tay? I rolled the phrase around.

  “Sweet tea, Ryan. Iced tea with sugar.”

  “Learning a foreign language is a bitch. OK. Back to Mr. Dorton. When we first spoke of him you said the gentleman was saddened by the theft of his aircraft.”

  “Devastated.”

  “And surprised.”

  “Dumbfounded.”

  “Who is Ricky Don Dorton?”

  The waitress delivered our food. Ryan asked for mayo. We both looked at him.

  “For the fries,” he explained.

  The waitress turned to me. I shrugged.

  When she’d gone, I pounded ketchup onto my fries, transferred the lettuce, pickle, and tomato from the plate to my burger, and added condiments.

  “I told you. Dorton owns a couple of strip clubs in Kannapolis, just north of Charlotte.”

  I took a bite. The ground beef was somewhere between scorched and vaporized. I took a swig of Coke. It was Coke. Not Diet Coke.

  My mood was darkening by the nanosecond.

  “The police have been watching Dorton on and off for a few years, but they’ve never been able to nail him with anything.”

  The waitress presented Ryan with a tiny corrugated cup of mayonnaise and more teeth than a coping saw.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  I felt my eyes roll toward my frontal lobe.

  “They think Mr. Dorton’s lifestyle exceeds his earning power?” Ryan asked, dipping a fry into the mayo.

  “Apparently the man’s got a lot of toys.”

  “Dorton’s back under surveillance?”

  “If Ricky Don so much as spits on a sidewalk, he’s busted.”

  I upended the ketchup, pounded, returned the bottle to the table with a loud crack.

  We ate in silence for several minutes. Then Ryan’s hand slipped over mine.

  “What’s bugging you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  I looked up. Deep concern in the cornflower eyes. I looked down.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Talk to me, cupcake.”

  I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it.

  “What is it?” Ryan probed.

  Easy one. I didn’t like feeling depressed by my work. I didn’t like feeling cheated because of a postponed vacation. I didn’t like feeling jealous over an innocent flirtation with an anonymous waitress. I didn’t like feeling that I had to answer to my daughter. I didn’t like feeling left out of her life.

  I didn’t like feeling I was not in control.

  Control. That was always my problem. Tempe had to be in control. That was the sole insight I’d gained from my single experience with analysis.

  I didn’t like analysis, didn’t like admitting I needed outside help.

  And I didn’t like talking about my feelings. Ever. Not with a psychologist. Not with a priest. Not with Yoda. Not with Ryan. I wanted to slide from the booth and forget this conversation.

  As if in betrayal, a lone tear headed south from one eye. Embarrassed, I backhanded my cheek.

  “Done?”

  I nodded.

  Ryan paid the check.

  The parking lot held two SUVs and my Mazda. Ryan leaned against the driver’s door, pulled me to him, and tilted my face upward with both hands.

  “Talk.”

  I tried to lower my chin.

  “Let’s jus—”

  “Does this have to do with last night?”

  “No. Last night was . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Was what?”

  God, I hated this.

  “Fine.” Skyrockets and the William Tell Overture.

  Ryan ran a thumb under each of my eyes.

  “Then why the tears?”

  OK, buster. You want feelings?

  I took a deep breath and unloaded.

  “Some sick son of a bitch torched a newborn. Some other prick’s been slaughtering wildlife like it was mold under the sink. Two guys wasted themselves on a rock face while in the act of boosting the Colombian economy. And some poor bastard got his brains blown out, and his head and hands lobbed into a shithouse.”

  My chest gave a series of tiny heaves.

  “I don’t know, Ryan. Sometimes I think goodness and charity are racing toward extinction faster than the condor or the black rhino.”

  Tears were now flowing.

  “Greed and callousness are winning out, Ryan. Love and kindness and human compassion are becoming just a few more entries on the list of endangered species.”

  Ryan pulled me close. Wrapping my arms around him, I wept on his chest.

  * * *

  The lovemaking was slower, gentler that night. Cellos and a triangle, not drums and a crash cymbal.

  Afterward, Ryan stroked my hair as I lay with my cheek nestled in the hollow beneath his collarbone.

  Drifting off, I felt Birdie hop onto the bed and curl behind me. The clock ticked softly. Ryan’s heart thudded with a peaceful, steady rhythm. Though perhaps not happy, I felt secure.

  It was the last I’d feel safe for a long, long time.

  I LOOKED AT THE CLOCK. FOUR TWENTY-THREE. BIRDIE WAS GONE. Ryan was snoring softly beside me.

  I’d been dreaming about Tamela Banks. I lay there a minute, trying to reassemble fragmented images.

  Gideon Banks. Geneva. Katy. A baby. A pit.

  My dreams are usually a piece of cake. My mind takes recent events and weaves them into nocturnal mosaics. No subliminal puzzlers. No Freudian brainteasers.

  So what the hell was this dream all about?

  Guilt over my failure to return Geneva Banks’s call?

  I’d tried.

  Twice.

  Guilt for not telling my daughter about Ryan?

  Katy had met him when she dropped Boyd off.

  Met him, yes.

  Fear for Tamela? Sadness over her baby?

  Then my mind was off and running.

  Why was Tamela Banks’s driver’s license at a farm belonging to Sonny Pounder, a man recently busted for dealing drugs? Had Tamela gone there with Darryl Tyree? Did the cocaine belong to Tyree? To Pounder? Why had it been left in the basement?

  Where was Tamela?

  Where was Darryl Tyree?

  A sudden terrible thought.

  Could the victim in the privy be Tamela Banks? Had Darryl Tyree killed her out of fear she’d reveal what had happened to the baby? Out of anger that the child wasn’t his?

  But that was impossible. The bones in the privy were devoid of flesh. Tamela’s baby was found only a week ago.

  But when had the infant died?

  I recapped what I knew about timing.

  Tamela told her sister about the pregnancy last winter. She left her father’s home sometime around Easter. Witnesses reported she’d been living with Tyree in a South Tryon Street house for four months.

  The baby could have been born in July, or even late June. When had Tamela last been seen? Could she have died several weeks ago? Could the highly organic environment in the privy have hastened decomposition?

  If not Tamela, who was the privy victim? Why was he there? Who had shot him?

  I thought the skull looked male, but was it a he?

  Where was Darryl Tyree? Could I be wrong about the skull looking Caucasian? Could we have pulled Tyree’s head and hands from the pit?

  Had I really seen a reaction in Rinaldi’s eyes? Had the head and hands triggered some recollection? If so, why keep it to himself?

  Slidell’s question was a good one. How had two of the privy pit hand bones ended up in a shallow grave with bears and birds?