Fatal Voyage

by Kathy Reichs

  “Believed what?”

  “That eating the dead negated the finality of death. That partaking of the flesh of another human being allowed the assimilation of soul, personality, and wisdom.”

  “Is that what Dashwood believed?”

  One bony shoulder shrugged.

  “Perhaps he did. Perhaps he simply used the idea, and for the inner circle the actual act, as a way to keep the club intact. Collective indulgence in the forbidden. The in-group, out-group mind-set. Prentice understood that cultural rituals exist to reinforce the unity of those performing them.”

  “How did it start?”

  “An accident.”

  He sniffed.

  “A bloody accident. A young man showed up at the lodge one summer. God knows what he was doing way out there. There was a lot of drinking, a fight, the boy was killed. Prentice proposed that everyone—”

  He withdrew a hanky and ran it over his eyes.

  “This took place before the war. I learned about it years later when I overheard a conversation that was not for my ears.”

  “Yes.”

  “Prentice cut slivers of muscle from the boy’s thigh and required everyone to partake. They had no inner-outer-circle distinction back then. It was a pact. Each was a participant and equally guilty. No one would talk about the boy’s death. They buried the body in the woods, the following year the inner circle was formed, and Tucker Adams was killed.”

  “Intelligent men accepted this insanity? Educated men with wives, and families, and responsible jobs?”

  “Prentice Dashwood was an extraordinarily charismatic man. When he spoke, everything made sense.”

  “Cannibalism?” I kept my voice calm.

  “Do you have any idea how pervasive the theme of humans eating humans is in Western culture? Human sacrifice is mentioned in the Old Testament, the Rig-Veda. Anthropophagy is central to the plot of many Greek and Roman myths; it’s the centerpiece of the Catholic Mass. Look at literature. Jonathan Swift’s ‘Modest Proposal’ and Tom Prest’s tale of Sweeney Todd. Movies Soylent Green; Fried Green Tomatoes; The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, Her Lover; Jean-Luc Godard’s Weekend. And let’s not forget the children: Hansel and Gretel, the Gingerbread Man, and various versions of Snow White, Cinderella, and Red Riding Hood. Grandma, what big teeth you have!”

  He drew a tremulous breath.

  “And, of course, there are the participants of necessity. The Donner party; the rugby team stranded in the Andes; the crew of the yacht Mignonette; Marten Hartwell, the bush pilot marooned in the Arctic. We are fascinated by their tales. And we embrace our famous-for-fifteen-minutes serial killer cannibals with even greater curiosity.”

  Another deep breath, exhaled slowly.

  “I can’t explain it, don’t condone it. Prentice made everything sound exotic. We were naughty boys sharing an interest in a wicked topic.”

  “Fay ce que voudras.”

  I recited the words carved above the entrance to the basement tunnel. During my convalescence, I’d learned that the Rabelais quote in sixteenth-century French also graced the archway and fireplaces at Medmenham Abbey.

  “‘Do what you like,’” Midkiff translated, then laughed mirthlessly. “It’s ironic. The Hell Fires used the quote to sanction their licentious indulgence, but Rabelais actually credits the words to Saint Augustine. “‘Love God and do what you like. For if with the spirit of wisdom a man loves God, then, always striving to fulfil the divine will, what he wishes should be the right thing.’”

  “When did Prentice Dashwood die?”

  “Nineteen sixty-nine.”

  “Was someone killed?” We had found only eight victims.

  “There could be no replacement for Prentice. Following his death no one was elevated to the inner circle. The number dropped to six and remained there.”

  “Why wasn’t Dashwood on the fax you sent me?”

  “I wrote down what I could recollect. The list was far from complete. I know almost nothing about those who joined after I left. As for Prentice, I just couldn’t—” He glanced away. “It was so long ago.”

  For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

  “You really didn’t know what was going on?”

  “I put it together after Mary Francis Rafferty died in 1972. That’s when I withdrew.”

  “But said nothing.”

  “No. I give no excuse.”

  “Why did you tip Sheriff Crowe about Ralph Stover?”

  “Stover joined the club after I dropped out. That’s why he moved to Swain County. I’ve always known he was unstable.”

  I remembered my most recent question.

  “Was it Stover who tried to run me down in Cherokee?”

  “I heard it was a black Volvo. Stover has a black Volvo. That incident convinced me that he really was dangerous.”

  I gestured at the boxes.

  “You’re digging here, aren’t you, Simon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without permission from Raleigh.”

  “The site is crucial to the lithic assemblage sequence I’m constructing.”

  “That’s why you lied to me about working for the Department of Cultural Resources.”

  He nodded.

  I set down my cup and stood.

  “I’m sorry things haven’t turned out as you’d hoped.” I was sorry, but couldn’t forgive what he had known and not reported.

  “When the book is published people will recognize the value of my work.”

  Outside, the day was still clear and cool, with no haze in the valleys or along the ridges.

  Twelve-thirty. I had to hurry.

  34

  THE TURNOUT FOR EDNA FARRELL’S FUNERAL WAS larger than I expected, given that she’d been dead more than half a century. In addition to members of her family, much of Bryson City, and many from the police and sheriff’s departments had gathered to lay the old woman to rest. Lucy Crowe came, and so did Byron McMahon.

  Stories of the Hell Fire Club now eclipsed accounts of the Air TransSouth crash, and reporters were there from across the Southeast. Eight seniors butchered and buried in the basement of a mountain lodge, the lieutenant governor discredited, and more than a dozen prominent citizens jailed. The media were calling them the Cannibal Murders, and I was forgotten like last year’s sex scandal. While I was sorry that I could not shield Mrs. Veckhoff and her daughter from the publicity and public humiliation, I was relieved to be out of the spotlight.

  I hung back during the graveside service, thinking of the many exits our departing lives can take. Edna Farrell didn’t die in her bed but departed through a much more melancholy door. So did Tucker Adams, at rest under the weathered plaque at my feet. I felt great sadness for these people, so long dead. But I felt comfort in the knowledge that I had helped bring their bodies to this hill. And satisfaction that the killings were at last at an end.

  When the mourners dispersed, I approached and laid a small bouquet on Edna’s grave. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned. Lucy Crowe was walking in my direction.

  “Surprised to see you back so soon.”

  “It’s my hard Irish head. Impossible to crack.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s so beautiful up here.” My gaze swept over the trees, the tombstones, the hills and valleys spreading to the horizon like orange velveteen.

  “It’s why I love the highlands. There is a Cherokee creation myth that tells how the world was created from mud. A vulture flew over, and where his wings beat down, there were valleys. Where his wings rose, there grew mountains.”

  “You are Cherokee?”

  A Crowe nod.

  Another question answered.

  “How’s your situation with Larke Tyrell?”

  I laughed.

  “Two days ago I received a letter of commendation from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner assuming full responsibility for the misunderstanding, exonerating me of any wrongdoing, and thanking me for my invaluable contribution to the Air Trans
South recovery. Copies were sent to everyone but the Duchess of York.”

  We left the cemetery and walked up the blacktop to our cars. I was inserting my key when she asked another question.

  “Did you identify the gargoyles on the tunnel entrance?”

  “Harpocrates and Angerona were the Egyptian gods of silence, a reminder to the brothers of their oath of secrecy. Another gimmick borrowed from Sir Francis.”

  “The names?”

  “Literary and historic references to cannibalism. Some are pretty obscure. Sawney Beane was a fourteenth-century cave-dwelling Scot. The Beane family was supposed to have slaughtered travelers and taken them home for supper. Same thing with Christie o’ the Cleek. He and his family lived in a cave in Angus and dined on passing travelers. John Gregg kept the tradition alive in eighteenth-century Devon.”

  “Mr. B?”

  “Baxbakualanuxsiwae.”

  “Very good.”

  “A Kwakiutl tribal spirit, a bearlike monster whose body was covered with bloody, snarling mouths.”

  “Patron saint of the Hamatsa.”

  “That’s him.”

  “And the code names?”

  “Pharaohs, gods, archaeological discoveries, characters in ancient tales. Henry Preston was Ilus, the founder of Troy. Kendall Rollins was Piankhy, an ancient Nubian king. Listen to this. Parker Davenport chose the Aztec god Ometeotl, the lord of duality. Do you suppose he was aware of the irony?”

  “Ever take a close look at the seal of the State of North Carolina?”

  I admitted that I hadn’t.

  “The motto is from Cicero’s ‘Essay on Friendship’—‘Esse Quam Videri.’”

  The Coke-bottle eyes held mine.

  “‘To be rather than to seem.’”

  * * *

  Winding down Schoolhouse Hill, I couldn’t help but notice a bumper sticker on the car ahead.

  Where will you spend eternity?

  Though placed in a broader time frame than I’d been considering, the decal posed the same question that was on my mind. Where would I spend the time ahead? More pointedly, with whom?

  During my convalescence, Pete had been caring and helpful, bringing flowers, feeding Birdie, heating soup in the microwave. We’d watched old movies, engaged in long conversations. When he was away, I spent hours recalling our life together. I remembered the good times. I remembered the fights, the minor irritations that simmered, then eventually escalated into full-scale battle.

  I had resolved one thing: I loved my estranged husband, and we would always be bound in our hearts. But we could no longer be bound in our beds. While handsome and loving and funny and smart, Pete shared something with Sir Francis and his Hell Fire mates: His hat would always be off to Venus.

  Pete was a wall I could beat myself against forever. We made much better friends than spouses, and henceforth, I would keep us that way.

  I turned onto Main at the bottom of the hill.

  I’d also considered Andrew Ryan.

  Ryan the colleague. Ryan the cop. Ryan the uncle.

  Danielle was not a paramour. She was a niece. That was good.

  I considered Ryan the man.

  The man who wanted to suck my toes.

  That was very good.

  Because of the wound Pete had inflicted, I’d been hovering on the edge of a relationship with Ryan, wanting to get close but keeping my distance, like a moth drawn to a flame. Attracted but afraid.

  Did I need a man in my life?

  No.

  Did I want one?

  Yes.

  What were the words of the song? I’d rather be sorry for something I did, than for something that I didn’t do.

  I’d decided to give Ryan a try and see how it went.

  I had one more stop in Bryson City. A stop I couldn’t wait to make.

  I parked outside a redbrick building at the corner of Slope and the Bryson Walk. When I entered the glass door, a woman in surgical scrubs looked up and smiled.

  “Is he ready?”

  “Very. Have a seat.”

  She disappeared, and I settled into a plastic chair in the waiting area.

  Five minutes later she led Boyd out. His chest was taped, and one foreleg had been shaved. Seeing me, he gave a little hop, then limped over and placed his head on my lap.

  “Is he in pain?” I asked the vet.

  “Only when he laughs.”

  Boyd rolled his eyes upward at me, and the purple tongue dropped out.

  “How are you doing, big guy?” I nuzzled his ears and touched my forehead to his.

  Boyd sighed.

  I straightened and looked at him.

  “Are you ready to go home?”

  He yipped and his eyebrows danced.

  “Let’s do it.”

  I could hear a laugh in his bark.

  AFTERWORD

  When I sat down to create Fatal Voyage, I could not have imagined the horror that struck on September 11. That reality outstripped anything I might have conceived as fiction.

  Like Tempe, I am familiar with the aftermath of death. I work for coroners in two jurisdictions. I have testified before the United Nations Tribunal on Genocide in Rwanda, and I have spent time in a mass grave in the Guatemalan highlands. I have dealt with the physical casualties that were the victims and the emotional casualties that are the survivors.

  Like Tempe, I serve on DMORT, a governmental disaster response team. In that capacity, I traveled to New York City to help with the World Trade Center recovery effort. Even as a professional familiar with bereavement and loss, I was unprepared for the emotional impact of that experience. At times I felt crushed by the scale of devastation. At times, overwhelmed by sadness. Rejuvenation came from a schoolgirl’s card, a prayer penned by a Sunday school class, a scout troop’s carefully painted banner.

  I drew strength from the strength of my countrymen. Above all, I felt proud to be one small part of the incredible team of men and women working to bring assistance, comfort, and a measure of closure to families, a city, a nation. The message was clear. This nation will overcome and prosper.

  —Kathy Reichs, October 2001

  Scribner proudly presents

  GRAVE

  SECRETS

  KATHY REICHS

  Now available in hardcover

  Turn the page for a preview of Grave Secrets. . . .

  “I am dead. They killed me, as well.”

  The old woman’s words cut straight to my heart.

  “Please tell me what happened that day.” Maria spoke so softly I had to strain to catch the Spanish.

  “I kissed the little ones and left for market.” Eyes down, voice toneless. “I did not know that I would never see them again.”

  K’akchiquel to Spanish, then reversing the linguistic loop, reversing again as answers followed questions. The translation did nothing to blunt the horror of the recitation.

  “When did you return home, Mrs. Ch’i’p?”

  “A que hora regreso usted a su casa, Señora Ch’i’p?”

  “Chike ramaj xatzalij pa awachoch, Ixoq Ch’i’p?”

  “Late afternoon. I’d sold my beans.”

  “The house was burning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your family was inside?”

  A nod.

  I watched the speakers. An ancient Mayan woman, her middle-aged son, the young cultural anthropologist, Maria Paiz, calling up a memory too terrible for words. I felt anger and sorrow clash inside me like the thunderheads building on the horizon.

  “What did you do?”

  “We buried them in the well. Quickly, before the soldiers came back.”

  I studied the old woman. Her face was brown corduroy. Her hands were callused, her long braid more gray than black. Fabric lay folded atop her head, bright reds, pinks, yellows, and blues, woven into patterns older than the mountains around us. One corner rose and fell with the wind.

  The woman did not smile. She did not frown. Her eyes met no one’s, to m
y relief. I knew if they lingered on mine even briefly, the transfer of pain would be brutal. Maybe she understood that and averted her gaze to avoid drawing others into the hell those eyes concealed.

  Or perhaps it was distrust. Perhaps the things she had seen made her unwilling to look frankly into unknown faces.

  Feeling dizzy, I upended a bucket, sat, and took in my surroundings.

  I was six thousand feet up in the western highlands of Guatemala, at the bottom of a steep-sided gorge. The village of Chupan Ya. Between the mountains. About one hundred and twenty-five kilometers northwest of Guatemala City.

  Around me flowed a wide river of green, lush forest interspersed with small fields and garden plots, like islands. Here and there rows of man-made terraces burst through the giant checkerboard, cascading downward like playful waterfalls. Mist clung to the highest peaks, blurring their contours into Monet softness.

  I’d rarely seen surroundings so beautiful. The Great Smoky Mountains. The Gatineau, Quebec under northern lights. The barrier islands off the Carolina coast. Haleakala volcano at dawn. The loveliness of the backdrop made the task at hand even more heartbreaking.

  As a forensic anthropologist, it is my job to unearth and study the dead. I identify the burned, the mummified, the decomposed, and the skeletonized who might otherwise go to anonymous graves. Sometimes the identifications are generic, Caucasoid female, mid-twenties. Other times I can confirm a suspected I.D. In some cases, I figure out how these people died. Or how their corpses were mutilated.

  I am used to the aftermath of death. I am familiar with the smell of it, the sight of it, the idea of it. I have learned to steel myself emotionally in order to practice my profession.

  But the old woman was breaking through my determined detachment.

  Another wave of vertigo. The altitude, I told myself, lowering my head and breathing deeply.

  Though my home bases are North Carolina and Quebec, where I serve as forensic anthropologist to both jurisdictions, I’d volunteered to come to Guatemala for one month as temporary consultant to the Fundación de Antropología Forense de Guatemala. The Guatemalan Forensic Anthropology Foundation, FAFG, was working to locate and identify the remains of those who vanished during the 1962 to 1996 civil war, one of the bloodiest conflicts in Latin American history.