stalk.
I grabbed a jacket from the backseat and slipped on gloves. Then, moving slowly to avoid making noise, I got out of my car. Pointless, since I was alone.
The overlook was bordered by a low steel barrier fitted with signs. I crossed to one, boot heels clicking in the stillness. According to the Burke County Tourism Development Authority, Brown Mountain could be seen directly ahead, Jonas Ridge opposite, behind my back.
I squinted into the far distance. Picked out a smoke-colored smudge riding the horizon. Not a light in sight. But I hadn’t come in pursuit of a selfie with ghostly vapors. Mind kicking into scientist mode, I assessed my surroundings.
If today was typical, the overlook was often deserted. Quick exit from the highway, short walk to the guardrail, quick reentrance to the north- or southbound lane, gone. The overlook was perfect for a body dump.
After nineteen months there was little chance we’d find evidence left by that vehicle. A tire track, a paint chip, a fiber from a carpet or floor mat. For the billionth time, I wondered what on earth I hoped to accomplish.
The sound of an engine caused me to turn.
A black Range Rover was pulling to a stop beside my Mazda. An Avery County Sheriff’s Department logo told me Deputy Ramsey had arrived. A dog’s silhouette was visible in the backseat.
As Ramsey unbuckled his safety belt, I walked toward him. The dog rubbernecked my way, watching through the glass like a New Yorker in a taxi.
“Doctor Brennan?” My name rode a small white cloud coning from Ramsey’s lips.
“Tempe. You must be Deputy Ramsey.”
Yanking off a glove to extend a hand. “Zeb.”
We shook. Ramsey’s grip was strong, but not a testosterone killer. I liked that.
“Sorry this had to fall on you,” I said.
“If you’ve got a dead kid from Avery, that’s my turf.”
“Deputy Ferris was reluctant to reengage.” That was an understatement.
“So I gathered.”
“I hope I haven’t dragged you out here on an April Fool’s errand.”
“If you have, explain it to Gunner.” Ramsey tipped his head in the direction of his canine companion. About whom I had doubts. Which I’d expressed on the phone the previous day.
“You’re sure he’s cadaver qualified?” I asked.
“Cadaver, drug, fugitive. Taught him myself.”
“So you said.” Trying to hide my skepticism. I’ve worked with a lot of cadaver dogs, canines specially trained to locate corpses. It’s a distinct skill, different from sniffing out drugs or tracking live individuals, and requires a distinct training protocol. I’d never encountered a dog that was good at all three tasks. Or one coached by an amateur.
An awkward moment passed.
“Did Deputy Ferris tell you about Hazel Strike?” I asked, wondering how the description had been phrased.
“She did.”
“Strike’s a bit of an odd duck.”
“She running late?” A hint. Ramsey wanted to move this along.
“She said eight. Can we give her a few more minutes?”
Tight nod.
Zeb Ramsey’s features were pleasant enough—brown eyes, straight nose, brows that didn’t meet in the middle. Until he smiled. Then the whole shifted into wonderful alignment.
Whoa-ho.
“May as well make introductions.” Ramsey crossed to the cruiser and opened a rear door.
Gunner’s parentage involved very large animals. Black, brown, and white coloring and a sprightly upcurl to his tail suggested a shepherd-chow mix.
My sort-of ex, Pete, has a chow. Gunner didn’t alight in the manner Boyd would have chosen, body flying, paws scrabbling as they hit the ground. He hopped out with controlled elegance and, eyes never leaving Ramsey, padded up to me and sat.
I looked to Ramsey. He nodded permission. I extended a hand, palm down, to allow Gunner to check out my scent. The dog sniffed, then licked my fingers with a long purple tongue. Definitely chow swirling in the gene pool.
I was stroking Gunner’s head when a battered red Corolla turned from the highway.
I grabbed a jacket from the backseat and slipped on gloves. Then, moving slowly to avoid making noise, I got out of my car. Pointless, since I was alone.
The overlook was bordered by a low steel barrier fitted with signs. I crossed to one, boot heels clicking in the stillness. According to the Burke County Tourism Development Authority, Brown Mountain could be seen directly ahead, Jonas Ridge opposite, behind my back.
I squinted into the far distance. Picked out a smoke-colored smudge riding the horizon. Not a light in sight. But I hadn’t come in pursuit of a selfie with ghostly vapors. Mind kicking into scientist mode, I assessed my surroundings.
If today was typical, the overlook was often deserted. Quick exit from the highway, short walk to the guardrail, quick reentrance to the north- or southbound lane, gone. The overlook was perfect for a body dump.
After nineteen months there was little chance we’d find evidence left by that vehicle. A tire track, a paint chip, a fiber from a carpet or floor mat. For the billionth time, I wondered what on earth I hoped to accomplish.
The sound of an engine caused me to turn.
A black Range Rover was pulling to a stop beside my Mazda. An Avery County Sheriff’s Department logo told me Deputy Ramsey had arrived. A dog’s silhouette was visible in the backseat.
As Ramsey unbuckled his safety belt, I walked toward him. The dog rubbernecked my way, watching through the glass like a New Yorker in a taxi.
“Doctor Brennan?” My name rode a small white cloud coning from Ramsey’s lips.
“Tempe. You must be Deputy Ramsey.”
Yanking off a glove to extend a hand. “Zeb.”
We shook. Ramsey’s grip was strong, but not a testosterone killer. I liked that.
“Sorry this had to fall on you,” I said.
“If you’ve got a dead kid from Avery, that’s my turf.”
“Deputy Ferris was reluctant to reengage.” That was an understatement.
“So I gathered.”
“I hope I haven’t dragged you out here on an April Fool’s errand.”
“If you have, explain it to Gunner.” Ramsey tipped his head in the direction of his canine companion. About whom I had doubts. Which I’d expressed on the phone the previous day.
“You’re sure he’s cadaver qualified?” I asked.
“Cadaver, drug, fugitive. Taught him myself.”
“So you said.” Trying to hide my skepticism. I’ve worked with a lot of cadaver dogs, canines specially trained to locate corpses. It’s a distinct skill, different from sniffing out drugs or tracking live individuals, and requires a distinct training protocol. I’d never encountered a dog that was good at all three tasks. Or one coached by an amateur.
An awkward moment passed.
“Did Deputy Ferris tell you about Hazel Strike?” I asked, wondering how the description had been phrased.
“She did.”
“Strike’s a bit of an odd duck.”
“She running late?” A hint. Ramsey wanted to move this along.
“She said eight. Can we give her a few more minutes?”
Tight nod.
Zeb Ramsey’s features were pleasant enough—brown eyes, straight nose, brows that didn’t meet in the middle. Until he smiled. Then the whole shifted into wonderful alignment.
Whoa-ho.
“May as well make introductions.” Ramsey crossed to the cruiser and opened a rear door.
Gunner’s parentage involved very large animals. Black, brown, and white coloring and a sprightly upcurl to his tail suggested a shepherd-chow mix.
My sort-of ex, Pete, has a chow. Gunner didn’t alight in the manner Boyd would have chosen, body flying, paws scrabbling as they hit the ground. He hopped out with controlled elegance and, eyes never leaving Ramsey, padded up to me and sat.
I looked to Ramsey. He nodded permission. I extended a hand, palm down, to allow Gunner to check out my scent. The dog sniffed, then licked my fingers with a long purple tongue. Definitely chow swirling in the gene pool.
I was stroking Gunner’s head when a battered red Corolla turned from the highway.
Similar Books
