Fatal Voyage Read Online Free

give your lecture inKnoxville . Then pick up

whatever supplies you’ll need and report back tomorrow. You’re going to be here awhile, so inform

the university. We’ll secure a bunk for you.”
     Fifteen minutes later a deputy was dropping me at my car. I’d been

right about a better route. A quarter mile up from where I’d parked, a dirt track cut off from

the Forest Service road. Once used for hauling timber, the tiny trail meandered around the

mountain, allowing access to within a hundred yards of the main crash site.
     Vehicles now lined both sides of the logging trail, and we’d passed

newcomers on our way downhill. By sunrise both the Forest Service and county roads would be

jammed.
     As soon as I was behind the wheel I grabbed my cell phone. Dead.
     I did a three-point turn and headed down toward the county road. Once

on Highway 74,1 tried again. The signal was back, so I punched in Katy’s number. A machine picked

up after four rings.
     Uneasy, I left a message, then set the tape in my head to play the don‘

the-an-idiot-mother“ lecture. For the next hour I tried to focus on my upcoming presentation,

pushing away thoughts of the carnage I’d left behind and the horror I’d face the following day.

It was no go. Images of floating faces and severed limbs shattered my concentration.
     I tried the radio. Every station carried accounts of the crash.
     Broadcasters reverently talked of the death of young athletes and

solemnly hypothesized as to cause. Since weather did not seem to be a factor, sabotage and

mechanical failure were the favored theories.
     Hiking out behind Crowe’s deputy, I’d spotted a line of sheared-off

trees oriented opposite my point of entrance. Though I knew the damage marked the plane’s final

descent path, I refused to join in the speculation.
     I entered 1-40, switched stations for the hundredth time, and caught a

journalist reporting from overhead a warehouse fire. Chopper sounds reminded me of Larke, and I

realized I hadn’t asked where he and the lieutenant governor had landed. I stored the question in

the back of my brain.
     At nine, I redialed Katy.
     Still no answer. I rewound the mind tape.
     Arriving inKnoxville , I checked in, contacted my host, then ate the

Bojangles’ chicken I’d picked up on the outskirts of town. I phoned my estranged husband

inCharlotte to request care for Birdie. Pete agreed, saying I’d be billed for cat transport and

feeding. He hadn’t talked to Katy for several days. After delivering a mini-version of my own

lecture, he promised to try to reach her.
     Next, I phoned Pierre Lamanche, my boss at the Laboratoire de Sciences

Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, to report that I would not be inMontreal the following week.

He’d heard reports of the crash and was expecting my call. Last, I rang my department chair at

UNC-Charlotte.
     Responsibilities covered, I spent an hour selecting slides and placing

them into carousel trays, then showered and tried Katy again. No go.
     I glanced at the clock. Eleven-forty.
     She’s fine. She’s gone out for pizza. Or she’s at the library. Yes.
     The library. I’d used that one many times when I was in school. It took

a very long time to fall asleep.
     By morning, Katy hadn’t called and was still not picking up. I tried

Lija’s number inAthens . Another robotic voice requested a message.
     I drove to the only anthropology department inAmerica located in a

football stadium, and gave one of the more disjointed talks of my career. The host of the guest

lecture series listed my DMORT affiliation in his introduction and mentioned that I would be

working the Air Trans South recovery. Though I could supply little information, follow-up queries

largely ignored my presentation and focused on the crash. The question-and-answer period lasted

forever.
     As the crowd finally milled toward the exits, a scarecrow man in a bow

tie