Fatal Voyage by Kathy Reichs Page A

attainable.
     Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppie-casual. The

jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He

looked good.
     “Where’s Bird?” I asked.
     “He’s been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in.”
     He handed me a mug with Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! scrolled around the

glass. “To that we must drink again!” in Latvian.
     “Boyd’s the dog?”
     A nod.
     “Yours?”
     “Interesting point. Have a seat and I’ll share with you the saga of

Boyd.”
     Pete got pretzels from the kitchen and joined me on the couch.
     “Boyd belongs to one Harvey Alexander Dineen, a gentleman recently in

need of pro bono defense. Completely surprised by his arrest, and lacking family, Harvey

requested that I look after his dog until the misunderstanding with the state was cleared

up.”
     “And you agreed?”
     “I appreciated his confidence in me.”
     Pete licked salt from a pretzel, bit off the large loop, and washed it

down with beer.
     “And?”
     “Boyd’s on his own for a minimum of ten and a maximum of twenty. I

figured he’d get hungry.”
     “What is he?”
     “He thinks of himself as an entrepreneur. The judge called him a con

man and career criminal.”
     “I meant the dog.”
     “Boyd’s a chow. Or at least most of him is. We’d need DNA testing to

clarify the rest.”
     He ate the other half of the pretzel.
     “Been out with any good corpses lately?”
     “Very funny.” My face must have suggested that it was not.
     “Sorry. Must be grim up there.”
     “We’re getting through it.”
     We made small talk for a while, then Pete invited me for dinner. Our

usual routine. He asked, I refused. Today I thought of Larke’s allegations, Anne and Ted’s London

adventure, and my empty condo.
     “What are you serving?”
     His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
     “Linguini con sauce vongole.”
     A Pete specialty. Canned clams on overcooked pasta.
     “Why don’t I pick up steaks while you deal with the plumber. When the

pipes are flowing, we can grill the meat.”
     “It’s an upstairs toilet.”
     “Whatever.”
     “It will be good for Bird to see that we’re friends. I think he still

blames himself.”
     Pure Pete.
     Boyd joined us at dinner, sitting beside the table, eyes glued to the

New York strips, now and then pawing a knee to remind us of his presence.
     Pete and I talked about Katy, about old friends, and about old times.

He discussed some current litigation, and I described one of my recent cases, a student found

hanging in his grandmother’s barn nine months after his disappearance. I was pleased that we’d

reached a comfort level at which normal conversation was possible. Time flew, and Larke and his

complaint receded from my thoughts.
     After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to

the den and switched on the news. The Air Trans South crash was the lead story.
     A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains

rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She

reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now

almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was

continuing around the clock.
     “It’s smart they’re giving you time off,” Pete said.
     I didn’t answer.
     “Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?”
     I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.
     Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.
     “Hey, babe, I’m only kidding. Are you O. K.?”
     I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
     “You don’t look too O. K.”
     “I’m fine.”
     “Do you want to tell me about it?”
     I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of

gore, about the coyotes and my