Back at High Ridge House, I made myself a ham salad sandwich, grabbed a bag of Sunchips and a handful of sugar cookies, and headed out to dine with Boyd. Though I apologized profusely for my negligence over the past week, his eyebrows barely moved, and his tongue remained firmly out of sight. The dog was annoyed.
More guilt. More self-censure.
After giving Boyd the sandwich, chips, and cookies, I filled his bowls with water and chow, and promised him a long walk the following day. He was sniffing the Alpo as I slipped away.
I reprovisioned myself and took the snack to my room. A note lay on the floor. Based on the mode of delivery, I suspected it had come from McMahon.
It had. He asked that I stop by FBI headquarters the next day.
I wolfed down my dinner, took a hot bath, and phoned a colleague at UNC-Chapel Hill. Though it was past eleven, I knew Jim's routine. No morning classes. Home around six. After dinner, a five-mile run, then back to his archaeology lab until 2 A.M. Except when excavating, Jim was nocturnal.
After greetings and a brief catch-up, I asked for his help.
“Doing some archaeology?”
“It's more fun than my usual work,” I said noncommittally.
I described the strange nicks and striations without revealing the nature of the victims.
“How old is this stuff?”
“Not that old.”
“It's odd that the marks are restricted to a single bone, but the pattern you're describing sounds suspicious. I'm going to fax you three recent articles and a number of my own photos.”
I thanked him and gave him the morgue number.
“Where is that?”
“Swain County.”
“You working with Midkiff?”
“No.”
“Someone told me he was digging up there.”
Next, I phoned Katy. We talked about her classes, about Boyd, about a skirt she'd seen in the Victoria's Secret catalog. We made plans for the beach at Thanksgiving. I never mentioned the murders or my growing trepidation.
After the phone call, I climbed into bed and lay in the dark, visualizing the skeletons we'd recovered from the cellar. Though I'd never seen an actual case, I knew in my heart what the strange marks meant.
But why?
I felt horror. I felt disbelief. Then I felt nothing until the sun warmed my face at 7 A.M.
Jim's photos and articles lay on the fax machine when I arrived at the morgue. Nature, Science, and American Antiquity. I read each and studied his pictures. Then I reexamined every skull and long bone, taking Polaroids of anything that looked suspicious.
Still, I could not believe it. Ancient times, ancient peoples, yes. These things didn't happen in modern America.
A sudden synapse.
One more phone call. Colorado. Twenty minutes later, another fax.
I stared at it, the paper trembling slightly in my hand.
Dear God. It was undeniable.
I found McMahon at his temporary headquarters in the Bryson City Fire Department. As with the incident morgue, the function of the FBI office had changed. McMahon and his colleagues had shifted their focus from crash to crime scene investigation, their paradigm from terrorism to homicide.
Space formerly occupied by the NTSB was now empty, and several cubicles had been merged to create what looked like a task force squad room. Bulletin boards that had once featured the names of terrorist groups and militant radicals now held those of eight murder victims. In one cluster, the positive IDs: Edna Farrell. Albert Odell. Jeremiah Mitchell. George Adair. In another, the unknown and those still in question: John Doe. Tucker Adams. Charlie Wayne Tramper. Mary Francis Rafferty.
Though every name was accompanied by a date of disappearance, the amount and type of information varied considerably from board to board.
On the opposite end of the room, more boards displayed photos of the Arthur house. I recognized the attic cots, the dining room table, the great room fireplace. I was examining shots of the basement murals when McMahon joined me.
“Cheerful stuff.”
“Sheriff Crowe thought that was a copy of a Goya.”
“She's right. It's Saturn Devouring His Children.”
He tapped a photo of the raft scene.
“This one's by Théodore Géricault. Know him?”
I shook my head.
“It's called The Raft of Medusa.”
“What's the story?”
“We're checking.”
“Who's the bear?”
“Same answer. We ran the name but came up with zip. Can't be that many Baxbakualanuxsiwaes out there.”
He removed a thumbtack with his nail and handed me a list.
“Familiar with anyone on the playbill?”
“The names from the tunnel walls?”
“Yeah. Special Agent Rayner's working them.”
Three folding tables lined the back of the room. One held a computer, the others cardboard boxes, each marked with date and provenance: Kitchen drawer L3. Living room, north wall bookcase.Other boxes were stacked on the floor.
A young man in shirtsleeves and tie worked at the computer. I'd seen him at the Arthur house, but we hadn't met. McMahon gestured from the agent to me.
“Roger Rayner, Tempe Brennan.”
Rayner looked up and smiled, then went back to his monitor.
“We've nailed a few of the more obvious players. The Greek and Roman gods, for example.”
I noted comments following some names. Cronus. Dionysus. The Daughters of Mineus. The Daughters of Pelias. Polyphemus.
“And the pope and the Aztec emperor popped right up. But who the hell is Dasakumaracarita? Or Abd al-Latif? Or Hamatsa?” He pronounced the names syllable by syllable. “At least I can say ‘Sawney Beane’ or ‘John Gregg.’”
He ran a hand through his hair and it did its rooster thing.
“I figured an anthropologist might recognize some obscure goddess or something.”
I was staring at one name, my nerve cells tingling. Hamatsa.
Moctezuma. The Aztecs.
Saturn devouring his children.
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” My voice sounded high and shaky.
McMahon gave me an odd look, then led me into an adjacent cubicle.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts.
“What I'm about to say is going to sound ludicrous, but I'd like you to hear me out.”
He leaned back and laced his fingers across his paunch.
“Among the Kwakiutl of the Pacific Northwest, the Hamatsa were a society of tribal elite. Young men who hoped to become Hamatsa went through a lengthy period of isolation.”
“Like fraternity pledges.”
“Yes. During their time in the forest the initiates would periodically appear on the outskirts of the village, demented and screaming, charge in, bite flesh from the arms and chests of those unfortunate enough to be present, then disappear back into the woods.”
McMahon's eyes were on his hands.
“Shortly before the end of his exile, each initiate was brought a mummy that had been soaked in salt water, cleaned, and split open. The initiate was expected to smoke-cure the corpse for the final ritual.”
I swallowed.
“During that ritual the aspirant and senior members of the brotherhood devoured portions of the corpse.”
McMahon did not look at me.
“Are you familiar with the Aztecs?”
“Yes.”
“They appeased their gods through the ritual eating of human beings.”
“Cannibalism?”
McMahon's eyes finally met mine.
“On a grand scale. When Cortés and his men entered Moctezuma's capital, Tenochtitlán, they found mounds of human skulls in the city square, others impaled on spikes. Their estimate was over one hundred thousand.”
Silence. Then, “Saturn ate his children.”
“Polyphemus captured Ulysses and dined on his crew.”
“Wh
y the pope?”
“I'm not sure.”
McMahon disappeared, returned in a moment.
“Rayner's looking him up.”
He looked at a note, scratched a clump of hair.
“Rayner found the Géricault painting. It's based on the 1816 wreck of a French frigate, La Méduse. According to the story, survivors ate the dead while stranded at sea.”
I was about to show McMahon my own findings when Rayner appeared in the doorway. We listened as he read from scribbled notes.
“I don't think you want the old boy's entire résumé, so I'll give you the highlights. Pope Innocent III is best known for organizing the Fourth Lateran Council in twelve fifteen A.D. Anyone who was anyone in Christendom was told to get his butt to this meeting.”
He looked up.
“I'm paraphrasing. With all the honchos convened, Innocent decreed that henceforth the words hoc est corpus meum were to be taken literally, and the faithful were required to believe in transubstantiation. That's the idea that, at Mass, the bread and wine are changed into the body and blood of Christ.”
He looked up again to see if we were with him.
“Innocent decreed that the act isn't symbolic, it's real. Apparently this question had been debated for about a thousand years, so Innocent decided to settle the issue. From then on, if you doubted transubstantiation, you were guilty of heresy.”
“Thanks, Roger.”
“No problem.” He withdrew.
“So what's the link?” McMahon asked.
“Innocent defined the most sacred ceremonial act of Christianity as true God-eating. It's what anthropologists call ritual anthropophagy.”
A childhood memory. A nun in traditional habit, crucifix on her breast, chalk on her hands.
“Do you know the origin of the word host?”
McMahon shook his head.
“Hostia. It means ‘sacrificial victim’ in Latin.”
“You think we're dealing with some fringe group that gets high on cannibalism?”
I took a steadying breath.
“I think it's much worse than that.”
“Worse than what?”
We both turned. Ryan stood in the spot recently occupied by Rayner. McMahon gestured at a chair.
“Worse than drooling over myths and allegorical paintings. I'm glad you're here, Ryan. You can verify what I'm about to describe.”
I pulled Jim's photos from my briefcase and handed the first to McMahon.
“That is the reconstructed leg bone of a red deer. The gashes were made with a sharp instrument, probably a stone knife. Notice how they cluster around the tendon and ligament attachment points, and at the joints.”
McMahon passed the photo to Ryan, and I handed him several more.
“Those are also animal bones. Notice the similar distribution of cut marks and striations.”
Next picture.
“Those are fragments of human bone. They were recovered from the same cave in southeastern France where the animal bones were found.”
“Looks like the same pattern.”
“It is.”
“Meaning?”
“Butchery. The bones were stripped of flesh and cut or twisted apart at the joints.”
“How old is this stuff?”
“One hundred thousand to one hundred and twenty thousand years. The site was occupied by Neanderthals.”
“Is this relevant?”
I gave him several more prints.
“Those are also human bones. They were recovered at a site near Mesa Verde, in southwestern Colorado.”
“Anasazi?” Ryan asked, reaching for a photo.
“Yes.”
“Who are the Anasazi?” McMahon.
“Ancestors of groups like the Hopi and Zuni. This site was occupied by a small group around 1130 to 1150 A.D., during a period of extreme drought. A colleague from Chapel Hill did the digging. These are his photos. At least thirty-five adults and kids were butchered. Notice that the pattern is identical.”
I fed them another photo.
“Those are stone tools found in association with the human bones. Tests confirmed the presence of human blood.”
Another.
“That ceramic cooking pot held the residue of human tissues.”
“How can they be sure these marks aren't caused by abrasion? Or by animals? Or by some sort of burial ritual? Maybe they cut up the dead to prepare them for the afterlife. That could explain the bloody tools and pot.”
“That was exactly the argument until this was discovered.”
I passed them another photo.
“What the hell is that?” McMahon gave it to Ryan.
“After seven people were killed, cooked, and eaten in a small underground room at this site, one of the diners squatted over the cold hearth and defecated.”
“Holy shit.”
“Exactly. Archaeologists call preserved feces coprolites. Biochemical tests showed traces of digested human muscle protein in this particular beauty.”
“Could the protein have gotten there by some other route?”
“Not myoglobin. Tests also showed this guy had eaten almost nothing but meat for eighteen hours prior to his grand gesture.”
“That is great stuff, Tempe, but I've got eight stiffs and a pack of reporters breathing down my neck. Other than perps with a morbid taste in art and literature, how is this relevant? You're showing me people who have been dead for centuries.”
I placed three more photos on his desk.
“Ever heard of Alfred G. Packer?”
He glanced at his watch, then at the pictures.
“No.”
“Alfie Packer is reputed to have killed and eaten five people in Colorado during the winter of 1874. He was tried and convicted of murder. The victims were recently exhumed and analyzed.”
“What the hell for?”
“Historic accuracy.”
Ryan circled behind McMahon. As the two men studied the bones of the Packer victims, I got up and spread my Polaroids across the desk.
“I took these at the morgue this morning.”
Like spectators at a tennis match, their eyes shifted among the Neanderthals, the Anasazi, the Packer victims, and my Polaroids. For a very long time no one spoke.
McMahon broke the silence.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in a bloody pear tree.”
NO ONE HAD ANYTHING TO ADD TO THAT.
“Who the hell are these lunatics?” Ryan's question broke the silence.
McMahon responded.
“The H&F Investment Group is buried under more layers than Olduvai Gorge. Veckhoff 's dead, so he's not talking. Following up on your suggestion, Tempe, we tracked down Rollins and Birkby through their fathers. Rollins lives in Greenville, teaches English at a community college. Birkby owns a chain of discount furniture stores, has homes in Rock Hill and Hilton Head. Each gentleman tells the same story: inherited his interest in H&F, knows nothing about the property, never visited there.”
I heard a door open, voices in the corridor.
“W. G. Davis is a retired investment banker living in Banner Elk. F. M. Payne is a philosophy professor at Wake Forest. Warren's an attorney in Fayetteville. We found the counselor on his way to the airport, had to spoil his little getaway to Antigua.”
“Do they admit to knowing one another?”
“Everyone tells the same story. H&F is strictly business, they never met. Never set foot on the property.”
“What about prints inside the house?”
“The recovery team lifted zillions. We're running them but it will take time.”
“Any police records?”
“Payne, the professor, was busted for pot in seventy-four. Otherwise, nothing came up. But we're checking every cell these guys have ever shed. If one of them peed on a tree at Woodstock, we'll get a sample. These assholes are dirty as hell, and they're going down for murder.”
Larke Tyrell appeared in the doorway. Deep lines creased his forehead
. McMahon greeted him, went in search of additional seating. Tyrell spoke to me.
“I'm glad you're here.”
I said nothing.
McMahon returned with a folding metal chair. Tyrell sat, his spine so erect it made no contact with the backrest.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” McMahon.
Tyrell removed a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, then refolded the linen in a perfect square.
“I have information that is highly sensitive.”
The Andy Griffith eyes shifted from face to face, but he did not say the obvious.
“I'm sure you are all aware that Parker Davenport died of a gunshot wound yesterday. The wound appears to be self-inflicted, but there are disturbing elements, including an extremely high level of trifluoperazine in his blood.”
We all looked blank.
“The common name is Stelazine. The drug is used in the treatment of psychotic anxiety and agitated depressions. Davenport had no prescription for Stelazine, and his doctor knows of no reason he would be taking it.”
“A man in his position wouldn't have trouble getting what he wanted.” McMahon.
“That's true, sir.”
Tyrell cleared his throat.
“Minute traces of trifluoperazine were also detected in the body of Primrose Hobbs, but immersion and decomposition had complicated the picture, so a definitive finding was not possible.”
“Does Sheriff Crowe know this?” I asked.
“She knows about Hobbs. I'll tell her about Davenport when I leave here.”
“Stelazine wasn't found among Hobbs's belongings.”
“Nor did she have a prescription.”
My stomach tightened. I had never seen Primrose take so much as an aspirin.
“Equally disturbing are phone calls made by Davenport on the evening of his death,” Larke went on.
Tyrell handed McMahon a list.
“You may recognize some of the numbers.”
McMahon scanned the printout, then looked up.
“Sonofabitch. The lieutenant governor phoned the H&F officers just hours before blowing his brains out?”
“What?” I blurted.
“Or had them blown out.” Ryan.
McMahon passed me the list. Six numbers, five names. W. G. Davis, F. M. Payne, F. L. Warren, C. A. Birkby, P. H. Rollins.
“What was the sixth call?”
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