Whispers of the Dead Read Free Page B

anticipation. For all the grim realism of the facility, the individuals
who'd bequeathed their bodies there had all died natural deaths.This
was different.
This was the real thing.
'So it looks like murder?' Homicide, I corrected myself. It was a safe
bet, otherwise the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation wouldn't be
involved. TheTBI was a single-state version of the FBI, for whom Tom
was a badge-carrying consultant. If the call had come from them rather
than a local police department, then chances were that this was serious.
    Tom kept his eyes on the road. 'Seems like it. I wasn't told much,
but from the sound of things the body's in bad shape.'
I was starting to feel unaccountably nervous. 'Will there be any
problem with me coming along?'
Tom looked surprised. 'Why should there be? I often take someone
to help out.'
'I meant because I'm British.' I'd had to go through the usual red
tape of visas and work permits in order to come out here, but I
hadn't anticipated anything like this. I wasn't sure how welcome I'd
be on an official investigation.
He shrugged. 'Can't see why that should be a problem. It's hardly
national security, and I'll vouch for you if anyone asks. Or you could
keep quiet and hope they don't notice your accent.'
Smiling, he reached to turn on the CD player. Tom used music the
way other people smoked cigarettes or drank whisky, claiming it
helped him to both clear his mind and focus his thoughts. His drug
of choice was fifties and sixties jazz, and by now I'd heard the half
dozen albums he kept in the car often enough to recognize most of
them.
He gave a little sigh, unconsciously settling back in the car seat as
a track by Jimmy Smith pulsed from the speakers.
I watched the landscape of Tennessee slide past outside the car.The
Smoky Mountains rose up ahead of us, shrouded in the blue-tinged
mist for which they'd been named. Their forest-covered slopes
stretched to the horizon, a rolling green ocean that was a stark
contrast to the commercial bustle of the retail outlets around us.
Garishly functional fast food outlets, bars and stores lined the highway,
the sky above them gridded with power lines and telegraph
wires.
London and the UK seemed a long way away. Coming here had
been a way to regain my edge and resolve some of the issues preying
on my mind. I knew that there were some hard decisions to make
when I got back. The temporary university contract I'd held in
London had ended while I'd been convalescing, and although I'd
been offered a permanent tenure, I'd received another offer from the
forensic anthropology department of a top Scottish university. There
had also been a tentative approach from the Forensic Search Advisory
Group, a multi-disciplinary agency which helped the police locate
bodies. It was all very flattering, and I should have been excited. But
I couldn't muster enthusiasm for any of it. I'd thought coming back
here would change that.
So far it hadn't.
I sighed, rubbing my thumb across the scar on my palm without
realizing it. Tom glanced across. 'You OK?'
I closed my hand on the scar. 'Fine.'
He accepted that without comment.'Sandwiches are in my bag on
the back seat. Might as well share them before we get there.' He gave
a wry smile. 'Hope you like beansprouts.'
The country outside the car became more thickly wooded as we
drew nearer the mountains. We drove through Pigeon Forge, a brash
resort whose bars and restaurants chased along the roadside. One
diner we passed was themed in a faux frontier style, right down to
the plastic logs. A few miles further on we came to Gatlinburg, a
tourist town whose carnival atmosphere seemed almost restrained in
comparison. It had sprung up on the very edge of the mountains, and
although its motels and shops clamoured for attention, they couldn't
compete with the natural grandeur that rose up ahead.
Then we left it behind and entered another world. Steep, densely
forested slopes closed in