Speaking in Bones

In the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, on the border between Burke and Caldwell counties, a hunk of igneous and metamorphic rock buckles up from the lush greenery of the Pisgah National Forest. As summits go, the buckle isn’t all that impressive, 2,600 feet high and a mile and a half long. But the wee peak has inspired Cherokee myths, folk legends, scientific studies, websites, YouTube footage, a modest tourist industry, and at least one popular song. It appears on every list of haunted sites in North America. All because of oddball lights.

For centuries, mysterious illuminations have been observed above and on Brown Mountain. According to eyewitness accounts, the small fiery orbs appear, rise to a fair height, then vanish below the ridgeline. Hundreds have reported seeing the lights, including locals, visitors, and those who have traveled to North Carolina for just that purpose.

Theories abound. The reflection of fires at moonshine stills. Swamp gas. Lantern-bearing Cherokee widows searching for the souls of husbands lost in battle.

The “ghost lights” have merited two investigations by the United States Geological Survey, the first in 1913, another in 1922. Official reports attributed the phenomenon to locomotives, cars, and occasional brush fires. Many folks don’t buy it. Especially the Cherokee.

As I followed my scribbled directions, which were barely legible, I had no idea I was heading to an overlook specifically constructed for viewing Brown Mountain. Nor was I well informed on the marvelous lights. I learned all of that after arriving, reading a sign, and doing a quick Google query while waiting for the rest of the team.

In the predawn hours, traffic was negligible, so I took the scenic route. I-40 to Morganton, then NC 181 north toward Jonas Ridge and Pineola. As I got on the two-lane, there was enough light to enjoy the view. The foothills and mountainsides were still glazed with frost, giving the landscape an ethereal, sugarcoated appearance. As the sun sent out its first tentative feelers, I watched the gaps between elevations ooze from black to gray to pinkish yellow.

Knowing the turnoff was easy to miss, Strike had provided GPS coordinates. The woman was thorough, I had to give her that. And right. I never saw it coming.

Ninety minutes after leaving Charlotte, my iPhone beeped to let me know that I’d arrived at my destination. I braked, cut from the blacktop, and pulled to a stop in a paved parking area. Mine was the only vehicle present.

After killing the engine, I lowered a window. The air smelled strongly of pine and chilled vegetation, faintly of petroleum caught in gravel scattering the shoulder of the road.

Absolute silence reigned in the woods around me. Not a single bird twittered or cawed a welcome or warning. No small creature rustled the undergrowth hurrying home from a night of hunting or setting out for a breakfast 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. Slamming to a stop beside my Mazda, Hazel Strike killed the engine and flew from the car, showing none of the restraint the dog had exhibited.

As Strike stormed toward us, Ramsey spread his feet and curled one end of the leash around a palm. Gunner tensed.

“Didn’t know we’d have company,” a scowling Strike said to me, back pointedly turned to Ramsey.

“Mrs. Strike, this is Deputy Ramsey.”

“Don’t see no reason for an army of cops.” A tiny vein snaked the center of Strike’s forehead, blue and sinuous and pumping like mad.

Unsure of the source of Strike’s anger and, frankly, not caring, I ignored the comment. “The dog’s name is Gunner.”

More of the hard stare, then Strike started to speak. I cut her off.

“Deputy Ramsey and I will walk Gunner in a systematic pattern, using standard search procedure. If remains or evidence are found, all materials will be photographed in place, then sealed into containers following chain of custody protocol. You may come along if you walk directly behind us in terrain that’s already been searched. If that’s unacceptable, I will have to ask you to wait up here in your car.” Firm, and not all that gentle.

“Christ almighty,” Strike said to the sky, maybe swearing, maybe praying.

Feeling a bit guilty for my brusqueness. “Can you point out where you found the key chain recorder?”

“Course I can. I’m not an idiot.”

I turned to Ramsey. “The remains were discovered ten yards downslope, on the Brown Mountain side.” The night before, I’d reviewed the file on ME229-13. And the lousy photos provided by Opal Ferris. “I’ll get my kit and meet you at the guardrail.”

Ramsey reclipped Gunner’s leash, and the two led the way. I followed. Strike brought up the rear.

Below the guardrail, the gradient dropped sharply. As we picked our way downhill, clutching branches of mountain laurel to keep from sliding, I could hear Strike panting above and behind me. And feel the crosshairs of her glare on my back.

Twenty feet of fighting gravity brought us to a fairly wide ledge. Though the yellow-pink dawn had yielded to crystalline blue day, towering loblolly pines blocked practically every square inch of sky. Perpetual shadow created by the overhead branches and the steep valley sides kept the space between trunks devoid of underbrush. A thick carpet of needles covered the ground.

Slipping my pack from my shoulders, I pulled out Ferris’s pics and searched them for a landmark. The others watched, Strike panting, Ramsey stoic. Or bored.

Around me, every tree looked the same. In my mind, I reviewed Ferris’s verbal description. Though it wasn’t stellar, from the wording I suspected we’d descended at the same end of the guardrail that she had.

“According to Ferris, the remains were found scattered over in that direction.” I pointed east.

We set out, needles soft and spongy beneath our boots. We hadn’t gone five yards when Strike spoke, sounding winded and sulky.

“That tree. There. That’s where I picked up the key chain.”

I turned, wondering at the woman’s certainty. At the clues she was noting that I was not.

Behind me, Ramsey asked,“What key chain?”

I gestured that I’d fill him in later. Gunner continued snuffling the ground, still on task.

“You’re sure?” I asked Strike.

“Can we skip the part where you and Johnny Law both act like I’m dumbass stupid?”

Not waiting for a directive, Strike veered toward a pine that looked identical to the others around it. I followed. So did Ramsey and Gunner.

“That’s my mark.” Strike pointed to a V-shaped gash in the bark, three feet up the trunk. “Made it with my knife.” She dropped to one knee and brushed back needles, revealing half-buried roots worming across the ground. “Thing was right there.” Indicating a recess where two gnarly tributaries V’ed together.

I looked at Ramsey. He looked at me.

“This tree’s as good a starting point for our grid as any,” he said.

“I suggest we keep the dog leashed first pass, then give him his head if nothing excites him.”

“Let’s do it.”

But Gunner had his own thoughts on the matter. A sound rose from his throat, more “yo” than “hot damn.” All eyes snapped his way.

The dog’s head was forward and low. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over Strike’s shoulder.

Ramsey reached down to unhook the leash. “Go.”

Gunner trotted forward, nose probing needles to his left and right. Approximately ten feet southeast of our position, he took one last sniff, exhaled loudly, and dropped to his belly at the base of a pine easily double the size of its neighbors.

“That’s his alert.” Ramsey was already moving.

I was right on his heels. Behind me, I heard Strike grunting as she clawed her way upright.

Drawing close, I scanned outward, following the trajectory of Gunner’s snout. Saw nothing.

While Ramsey praised the dog, I ran my eyes slowly over the ground. Ran them back. Still saw zip.

False alarm?

An icy breeze lifted a few strands of my hair. Branches shifted ever so slightly. A sliver of light cut the canopy and fell on the brown shag covering the earth. From deep in the thickly meshed needles, I saw a wink of red, there then gone.

Swapping latex for woolen gloves, I inched forward and dropped to my knees by the tree. Moving gingerly, I scooped handfuls of needles and set them aside.

As with Strike’s key chain pine, a plexus of roots radiated outward, dark and woody, like a primordial hand clawing the forest floor. Wedged in a hollow below one knuckle was a red and yellow mass about the size of a peach pit.

Rotten fruit? A dead rodent or bird?

I poked at the mass with a gloved finger. It felt hard.

I pulled out my Nikon, jotted info onto an evidence marker, and shot pics from several angles. Documentation complete, I returned the camera to my pack. Throughout, Ramsey and Strike watched in puzzled silence.

Gripping with a thumb and fingertip, I tried to rotate the mass right. Felt movement. Maybe. Rotated left, then right, over and over. Slowly, reluctantly, the knuckle yielded its grip and the thing slipped free.

I placed the little mass on my palm. It was semitranslucent, red and yellow on one end, brown on the other. When I flipped it, two soil-crusted knobs were visible on the underside.

I pulled a magnifier from my pack and brought the knobs into focus.

Felt my heart throw in a few extra beats.

“What is it?” Strike asked.

I was too shocked to answer.