Fatal Voyage (39 page)

 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 Abdal-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 Cortes and his men entered Moctezuma’s capital,
Tenochtitlan, 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.”

 “Why 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 Gericault painting. It’s based on the 1816 wreck of a
French frigate, La Meduse. 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 resume, 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 hostl”

 Mcmahon shook his head. -M

 “Hostia. It means ‘ 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. r “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 trifluoperazme 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?”

 “The number traces to a rented cabin in Cherokee. Sheriff Crowe is
checking it out.”

 “Tempe, show Dr. Tyrell what you just showed me.”

 Mcmahon reached for his phone.

 “It’s time to run these bastards to ground.”

 Larke wanted to examine the marks firsthand, so we went straight to the
morgue. Though I’d had nothing since coffee at seven, and it was after one, I had no appetite. I
kept seeing Primrose, wondering what she’d discovered. What threat she’d posed. And a new
question: Was her murder linked to the death of the lieutenant governor?

 Larke and I spent an hour going over the bones, the ME looking and
listening closely, now and then asking a question. We’d just finished when my cell phone
rang.

 Lucy Crowe was in Waynesville but had something she needed to
discuss.

 Could we meet around nine at High Ridge House? I agreed.

 As we were disconnecting she asked a question.