Fatal Voyage [Paperback]

Tempe Brennan, Kathy Reichs' forensic anthropologist heroine, often finds herself in physical jeopardy. In Fatal Voyage, her fourth outing, someone is trying to kill her and also to destroy her professional reputation with trumped-up charges of unethical behaviour.

Tempe is called in when a plane full of college athletes goes down in the remoter parts of the forests of North Carolina. She finds herself investigating a spare foot she rescued from coyotes, a foot which is significantly more decomposed than the crash victims and which has symptoms of gout, a disease most of the dead young people had no time to contract. There is a locked house and walled courtyard out in the woods that do not appear on any maps and it seems almost as if her simple knowledge of their being there has offended the powerful of the world.

As always, Kathy Reichs manages to combine a detailed knowledge of who the dead were and how they died with a profound sense of the sadness of things. This is a book that never lets us forget amid the dissections and tests for genetic markers that each human death is that of a tragic and irreplaceable human being. Tempe is one of the more attractive of the current crop of women detectives simply because she is flawed and vulnerable as well as smart, righteous and brave. Reichs never lets you forget that crime novels should acquaint us with good people as well as human evil. --Roz Kaveney --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

‘Genuinely thrilling’ --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Once again forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan is thrust into the centre of the action. This time set in America rather than Canada, the story focuses on a catastrophic plane crash. Caught travelling to a lecture, Tempe has to divert to the crash scene and report for business. Treading her way through the fragments of the crash site and what were once human beings, she strives to bring names to the remains to ease the victims families pain. During a respite from the traumatic findings she comes across a severed foot which she initially assumes comes from the crash. However, tests back at the morgue reveal the foot pre-dates the crash and opens up a whole can of worms for both Tempe and the people who want the matter hidden.. And so begins a story of secret societies, missing persons and forest hideaways, political intrigue and personal vendettas. Intermingled with the enquiry into the plane crash, the two stories twist and turn till the climactic ending in true Reich style. Tempe's complicated personal life simmers in the background, giving a human side to this gently self-mocking, professional woman. Reich's spine-tingling tension eventually emerges, with a tight, expert finish that will keep the reader both enthralled and in suspense till the final page. Written with Reich's personal experience of forensic pathology, the story is given the ring of veracity which makes this an even more compelling read. - Lucy Watson --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

'Inevitably compared with Patricia Cornwell, Reichs is actually in a different league' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

'Kathy Reichs is some kind of writer! Deep in Patricia Cornwell territory, she outdoes the queen ... Terrific' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

The fourth Temperance Brennan thriller from the international no. 1 bestselling author --This text refers to the Audio Cassette edition.

When a plane crashes high in the mountains of North Carolina, Tempe Brennan is one of the first on the scene. As a forensic anthropologist for the state, she serves on the region's disaster response team. The task that confronts her is a sad and sickening one. Putting normal life on hold, she and her colleagues must painstakingly identify the victims. A chance discovery concerns her: a severed foot, well away from the main crash site. A deserted house close by is buried so deep in the woods that locals claim to know nothing of its existence. And her examination of the foot throws up more questions than it answers. Before she can make any progress, an anonymous accusation is levelled against her. Tempe must fight to save her professional standing. But she fears that, air tragedy aside, another corpse lies somewhere in the woods. Pitting herself against a conspiracy of silence, Tempe is determined to bring justice for her mystery victim...

Kathy Reichs's fourth book is being acclaimed by reviewers as her best yet. Set in the isolated North Carolina mountains in the aftermath of a plane crash, the book finds Tempe Brennan bringing all her usual determination and spirit to her task - until accusations of professional misconduct leave Tempe excluded from the investigation she started, her career in jeopardy. We hope Kathy's fans will be as excited about Fatal Voyage as we are. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

A plane crashes high in the mountains of North Carolina. But a severed foot is discovered a good distance from the crash site...

Forensic anthropologist Dr Temperence Brennan is first on the scene. The task that confronts her is a sad and sickening one, and her investigation seems to be throwing up more questions than answers.

But when Tempe makes a discovery that raises dangerous questions, her professional standing is threatened. Convinced that another corpse lies in the woods, Tempe pits herself against a conspiracy of silence, and uncovers a shocking tale of deceit and depravity...

'Fatal Voyage is probably the best book Kathy Reichs has written... satisfyingly hard to unravel' Sunday Telegraph

Kathy Reichs is now the Alpha female of this genre' Irish Independent

--This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Kathy Reichs serves as forensic anthropologist for the Offices of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina, and for the Laboratorie de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale for the province of Quebec. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Caroline at Charlotte, she divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal.

1 I STARED AT THE WOMAN FLYING THROUGH THE TREES. HER HEAD was forward, chin raised, arms flung backward like the tiny chrome goddess on the hood of a Rolls-Royce. But the tree lady was naked, and her body ended at the waist. Blood-coated leaves and branches imprisoned her lifeless torso. Lowering my eyes, I looked around. Except for the narrow gravel road on which I was parked, there was nothing but dense forest. The trees were mostly pine, the few hardwoods like wreaths marking the death of summer, their foliage every shade of red, orange, and yellow. Though it was hot in Charlotte, at this elevation the early October weather was pleasant. But it would soon grow cool. I took a wind-breaker from the backseat, stood still, and listened. Birdsong. Wind. The scurrying of a small animal. Then, in the distance, one man calling to another. A muffled response. Tying the jacket around my waist, I locked the car and set off toward the voices, my feet swishing through dead leaves and pine needles. Ten yards into the woods I passed a seated figure leaning against a mossy stone, knees flexed to his chest, laptop computer at his side. He was missing both arms, and a small china pitcher protruded from his left temple. On the computer lay a face, teeth laced with orthodontic wiring, one brow pierced by a delicate gold ring. The eyes were open, the pupils dilated, giving the face an expression of alarm. I felt a tremor beneath my tongue, and quickly moved on. Within yards I saw a leg, the foot still bound in its hiking boot. The limb had been torn off at the hip, and I wondered if it belonged to the Rolls-Royce torso. Beyond the leg, two men rested side by side, seat belts fastened, necks mushrooming into red blossoms. One man sat with legs crossed, as if reading a magazine. I picked my way deeper into the forest, now and then hearing disconnected shouts, carried to me at the wind’s whim. Brushing back branches and climbing over rocks and fallen logs, I continued on. Luggage and pieces of metal lay among the trees. Most suitcases had burst, spewing their contents in random patterns. Clothing, curling irons, and electric shavers were jumbled with containers of hand lotion, shampoo, aftershave, and perfume. One small carry-on had disgorged hundreds of pilfered hotel toiletries. The smell of drugstore products and airplane fuel mingled with the scent of pine and mountain air. And from far off, a hint of smoke. I was moving through a steep-walled gully whose thick canopy allowed only mottled sunlight to reach the ground. It was cool in the shadows, but sweat dampened my hairline and glued my clothing to my skin. I caught my foot on a backpack and went hurtling forward, tearing my sleeve on a jagged bough truncated by falling debris. I lay a moment, hands trembling, breath coming in ragged gulps. Though I’d trained myself to hide emotion, I could feel despair rising in me. So much death. Dear God, how many would there be? Closing my eyes, I centered myself mentally, then pushed to my feet. Aeons later, I stepped over a rotting log, circled a stand of rhodo-dendron, and, seeming no closer to the distant voices, stopped to get my bearings. The muted wail of a siren told me the rescue operation was gathering somewhere over a ridge to the east. Way to get directions, Brennan. But there hadn’t been time to ask questions. First responders to airline crashes or other disasters are usually well intentioned, but woe-fully ill-prepared to deal with mass fatalities. I’d been on my way from Charlotte to Knoxville, nearing the state line, when I’d been asked to get to the scene as quickly as possible. Doubling back on I-40, I’d cut south toward Waynesville, then west through Bryson City, a North Carolina hamlet approximately 175 miles west of Charlotte, 50 miles east of Tennessee, and 50 miles north of Georgia. I’d followed county blacktop to the point where state maintenance ended, then proceeded on gravel to a Forest Service road that snaked up the mountain. Though the instructions I’d been given had been accurate, I suspected there was a better route, perhaps a small logging trail that allowed a closer approach to the adjacent valley. I debated returning to the car, decided to press on. Perhaps those already at the site had trekked overland, as I was doing. The Forest Service road had looked like it was going nowhere beyond where I’d left the car. After an exhausting uphill scramble, I grabbed the trunk of a Douglas fir, planted one foot, and heaved myself onto a ridge. Straightening, I stared into the button eyes of Raggedy Ann. The doll was dangling upside down, her dress entangled in the fir’s lower branches. An image of my daughter’s Raggedy flashed to mind, and I reached out. Stop! I lowered my arm, knowing that every item must be mapped and recorded before removal. Only then could someone claim the sad memento. From my position on the ridge I had a clear view of what was probably the main crash site. I could see an engine, half buried in dirt and debris, and what looked like pieces of wing flap. A portion of fuselage lay with the bottom peeled back, like a diagram in an instructional manual for model planes. Through the windows I could see seats, some occupied, most empty. Wreckage and body parts covered the landscape like refuse discarded at a dump. From where I stood, the skin-covered body portions looked starkly pale against the backdrop of forest floor, viscera, and airplane parts. Articles dangled from trees or lay snarled in the leaves and branches. Fabric. Wiring. Sheet metal. Insulation. Molded plastic. The locals had arrived and were securing the site and checking for survivors. Figures searched among the trees, others stretched tape around the perimeter of the debris field. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.