So, I did downtown Cherokee ... I joined the tourist mass swarming walkways and businesses. I appraised genuine Cherokee ashtrays, key chains, back scratchers and tom-toms. I inspected authentic wooden tomahawks, ceramic buffaloes, acrylic blankets, and plastic arrows and marveled at the ringing of the cash register .... Now, who’s screwing whom? I thought, watching a young boy hand over seven dollars for a neon-feathered headdress.
- Fatal Voyage, p. 114

There were eighty-eight passengers (including an entire UGA soccer team) on the TransSouthAir flight that exploded over the Big Laurel section of Swain County, littering a mile of remote wilderness with ruptured luggage, shattered metal, and human body parts. Within a few hours, CNN and all of the major networks have commandeered Bryson City’s local motels; the old Alarka school has been converted into a “recovery center,” and an astonishing number of federal, state, and Swain County agencies are picking through the debris and bickering over jurisdiction. “Looks like a Pulitzer crash,” says one of the journalists, and the media frenzy begins.

Rumors spread through Bryson City and within hours the media pundits begin to suggest theories - a bomb in the luggage compartment; a missile (fired from a local minister’s residence); and various mechanical failure scenarios. Newscasters begin to comment on possibilities: a terrorist plot? Did someone sabotage an entire aircraft to eliminate a controversial political figure or an overly-insured spouse?

Among the disaster experts summoned to the crash site is Temperance (Tempe to her friends) Brennan, a NDMT specialist (that is a National Disaster Medical Team) and a nationally respected forensic archaeology scholar. Tempe takes on the daunting task of assisting in the recovery of body parts - a job that resembles a grisly kind of jig-saw puzzle assembly - the appropriate head with the right torso, matching legs with feet, etc. Stricken friends and relatives wait for official verification of what they have reluctantly accepted. Spokesmen for the National Park Service express concern about marauding animals at the crash site. The tension builds.

Then, the unthinkable happens. When the exhausted Tempe wanders into a section some distance from the crash site, looking for respite from her grim task, she finds herself confronting what she thinks is a pack of unfriendly wolves or coyotes (recently relocated to the Great Smokies), and notes that one of them has a human foot in its mouth. Tempe assumes that the severed limb is part of the disaster and manages to recover it. The foot is bagged, numbered and filed with the other assorted body parts. However, a curious fact evolves. The foot doesn’t belong to any crash victim! (Think about that for a moment.)

As Brennan struggles to account for this bizarre turn of events, she is suddenly informed that a number of “official complaints” have been filed against her. In quick succession, she is accused of tampering with evidence and evicted from the site. Returning to Charlotte, she senses that someone wants her out of the way. Could it be the lieutenant governor of North Carolina, who has inexplicably shown up at the crash site? Tempe decides to recoup her forces by seeking the solace and advice of her ex-husband. Then, rejuvenated and bolstered by legal advice (the ex-husband is a lawyer) and the company of a delightful dog (his name is Boyd and he has a purple tongue), she returns to the scene of the crime.

However, as Tempe struggles to clear her name, the allegations increase. A committee is convened to investigate both her competence and her ethics. Informed that her job and her professional credentials are in jeopardy, she begins to suspect that she has unwittingly blundered onto a secret that could eclipse the horrors attending the crash. Launching her own investigation from her bed-and- breakfast room in Bryson City, she learns that the property adjacent to the crash site is owned by an organization composed of a mysterious anonymous membership. Now, who are they?

Then, the body of a recovery staff member is found in Fontana Lake, a speeding car narrowly misses Tempe in a parking lot in Cherokee, and the suspense begins to mount - stealthy footsteps, ominous phone calls, and ransacked rooms. “You’re dead,” whispers the voice on the phone, “You’re dead.” Tempe spends a lot of time listening to wind, barking dogs, and creaking stairs.

Well, it is a damned good yarn. Despite the fact that Tempe’s profile bears a faint resemblance to that of Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta (forensic medicine, a worrisome daughter in college, unresolved sexual hankerings for a charming colleague, etc.), Kathy Reighs has undoubtedly created an appealing protagonist who talks and acts like a seasoned specialist. That is understandable in view of the fact that Ms.Reighs is a forensic anthropologist for the Chief Medical Examiner of North Carolina and the director of forensic anthropology to the Province of Quebec - the same credentials as the protagonist of Fatal Voyage.

Also, Fatal Voyage carries an impressive freight of authenticity in terms of geographic setting. When Tempe visits the Swain County courthouse (both the old and new one) and cranks the microfilm machine at the Marianna Black library (where she is expelled by a terrifying lilac-headed librarian for using her cell phone on the premises), you know the author has been there. (However, sweet Beverly Means does not have lilac hair.) When Tempe dines at the Everett Street Cafe, climbs the hill to the graveyard overlooking the town of Bryson City, and takes a drive to Cherokee (described in all of its tawdry glitz), each scene radiates authentic details. (Well, except for the mention of an outboard motor chugging up the Oconaluftee!)

The character of Temperance Brennan is winsome and appealing. However, I seriously question her taste in men, and found myself preferring the ex-husband Pete to the smart-mouthed co-worker and Canadian, Ryan, who is given to making derogatory comments about mountain culture. Although Tempe’s interest in Ryan remains unrequited, he does win points for bold confessions - he yearns to suck Tempe’s toes. He also has a propensity for black humor and bad puns. The local sheriff of Swain County, Lucy Crowe, is a marvelous creation. In fact, her tall figure, arresting eyes and distinctive body language are among this novel’s most memorable features. Local characters in Bryson City manage to be quaint without being offensive. There is a wonderful minister who looks like a diminutive Johnny Cash, a collection of rustics at a local garage and an abundance of personalities, male and female, afflicted with religious fervor. However, despite the obligatory references to “snake handling,” the humor is gentle and unbarbed.

Any suspense novel requires “the willing suspension of disbelief” to some extent. In a few instances, Fatal Voyage strained my willingness a little. The “chance” phone call from an old friend who has just returned from a jaunt to England where she “just happened” to have visited an obscure historic site, which, in turn, “just happens” to provide Tempe with the vital clue to the dark mystery, which ... well, all of it is just a bit too much in the realm of synchronicity. Reichs plants a generous number of false leads and red herrings (the missile turns out to be a white dove). But, I’m not complaining much. As for the existence of an elitist secret society that practices unspeakable rituals in an isolated section of Big Laurel, well, even when the final pages of Fatal Voyage become a bit strained and incredible, the suspense is still compelling.

Besides, I’m willing to tolerate a bit of flim-flam for a purple-tongued dog named Boyd.

(Gary Carden is a writer and storyteller who lives in Sylva. He can be reached at GCarden498@aol.com)

 

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