"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 04 - Fatal Voyage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

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
rhododendron, 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 woefully
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 1-40, 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.