Fatal Voyage (43 page)

 His voice came to me as though under water.

 “I’m going to make you pay for this. Really pay.”

 I heard him rise.

 “I have a necklace I want to show you.”

 I inhaled deeply, trying to clear my head. He was coming at me with the
garrote.

 Out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer. I turned. Three slivers of
light were bobbing toward me. Or was I hallucinating?

 “Freeze!” A gravelly female voice.

 “Drop it! ”Male.

 “Stop!” A different male voice.

 A muzzle flashed in the darkness in front of me. Two shots rang
out.

 Return fire from the direction of the voices. The ping of a bullet
ricocheting off rock.

 A thud, an expulsion of air. The sound of a body sliding down the rock
wall. ‘

 Running feet.

 Hands on my throat, my wrist.

 “ pulse is strong.”

 Faces above me, swimming like a mirage on a summer sidewalk. Ryan.

 Crowe. Deputy Nameless.

 “ ambulance. It’s O.K. We didn’t hit her.”

 Static.

 I struggled to sit.

 “Lie back.” Gentle pressure on my shoulders.

 “I have to see him.”

 One circle of light slid to the cliff where my assailant sat
motionless, legs stretched in front, back against rock. Slowly, the light illuminated feet, legs,
torso, face. I knew who he was.

 Ralph Stover, the not-so-happy owner of the Riverbank Inn, the man who
would not let me into Primrose’s room. He stared sightlessly into the night, chin forward, brain
slowly oozing onto a stain on the rock behind his head.

 I LEFT CHARLOTTE AT DAWN ON FRIDAY AND DROVE WEST THROUGH heavy
fog.

 The shifting vapors lightened as I climbed toward the Eastern
Continental Divide, vanished outside Asheville.

 Leaving Highway 74 at Bryson City, I drove up Veterans’ Boulevard, past
the cutoff to the Fryemont Inn, turned right on Main, and parked opposite the old courthouse, now
a senior citizens’ center. I sat a moment watching sunlight glisten on its little gold dome, and
thought of those seniors whose bones I’d unearthed.

 I pictured a tall, gangly man, blind and nearly deaf; a fragile old
woman with a crooked face. I imagined them on these same streets all those years ago. I wanted to
put my arms around them, to tell each of them that things were being put right.

 And I thought about those who had perished on Air Trans South 228. So
many stories had only begun. Graduations not attended. Birthdays not celebrated. Voyages not
taken. Lives obliterated because of one fatal voyage.

 I took my time walking to the fire station. I’d spent a month in Bryson
City, had come to know it well. I was leaving now, my work completed, but a few questions
remained.

 When I arrived Mcmahon was packing the contents of his cubicle into
cardboard boxes.

 “Breaking camp?” I asked from the doorway.

 “Hey, girl, you’re back in town.” He cleared a chair, gestured me into
it. “How are you feeling?”

 “Bruised and scraped but fully functional.”

 Amazingly, I’d sustained no serious injury during my romp in the woods
with Ralph Stover. A slight concussion had sent me to the hospital for a couple of days, then
Ryan had driven me to Charlotte. Assured I was fine, he’d flown back to Montreal, and I’d spent
the rest of the week on the couch with Birdie.

 “Coffee?”

 “No thanks.”

 “Mind if I keep working?”

 “Please.”

 “Has someone regaled you with the whole strange tale?”

 “There are still gaps. Take it from the top.”

 “H&F was some kind of hybrid between Mensa and the Billionaire Boys
Club. It didn’t start out that way, was originally just a bunch of businessmen, doctors, and
professors coming to the mountains to hunt and fish.”

 “Back in the thirties.”

 “Right. They’d camp on Edward Arthur’s land, hunt during the day, drink
and party all night. Applaud themselves on their extraordinary intelligence. The group got to be
very close over the years, eventually formed a secret society which they called H&F.”

 “The founding father being Prentice Dashwood.”

 “Dashwood was the first prior, whatever the hell that means.”

“H&F stands for Hell Fire,” I said. “Hell Fire Clubs flourished in
eighteenth-century England and Ireland, the most famous being the brainchild of Sir Francis
Dashwood. Prentice Dashwood of Albany, New York, was a descendant of Sir Francis. Mama was an
unnamed Hell Fire lady.” I’d done a lot of reading during my time on the couch. “Sir Francis had
four sons named Francis.”

 “Sounds like George Foreman.”

 “The man was proud of his name.”

 “Or the least creative progenitor in history.”

 “Anyway, the original Hell Fires had a healthy skepticism for
religion

 and loved lampooning the church. They referred to themselves as the

 Knights of Saint Francis, to their parties as ‘,“ to their steward
as

 “Who were these assholes?”

 “The rich and powerful of Merry Old England. Ever hear of the Bohemian
Club?”

 Mcmahon shook his head.

 “It’s a highly select, all-male club whose members have included every
Republican president since Calvin Coolidge. They gather for two weeks every year at a secluded
campground in Sonoma County, California, called the Bohemian Grove.” Mcmahon paused, a folder in
each hand.

 “That does ring a bell. The few journalists that have gotten in over
the years have been thrown out and their stories killed.”

 “Yep.”

 “You’re not suggesting our political and industrial bigwigs plot murder
at these ”rendezvous?“

 “Of course not. But the concept is similar: powerful men camping in
seclusion. Bohemian Club members are even reported to use mock-druidic rituals.”

 Mcmahon taped a carton, slid it across the floor, and placed another on
his desk.

 “We’ve netted all but one of the H&F members, and we’re
accumulating the story bit by bit, but it’s slow. Needless to say, no one’s enthused about
talking to us, and everyone is lawyered to the gills. Each of the six officers will be charged
with multiple counts of homicide, but it’s unclear what the culpability is for the rest of the
pack. Midkiff claims only the leaders participated in murder and cannibalism.”

“Has Midkiff been given immunity?” I asked.

 He nodded. “Most of our info is coming from him.”

 “He sent the code name fax?”

 “Yes. He’d reconstructed what he remembered. Midkiff left the group in
the early seventies, claims he was never involved in any killing. Didn’t know about Stover. He
says he reached a point last week where he couldn’t live with himself anymore.”

 Mcmahon began transferring papers from a file cabinet to the box.

 “And he was afraid for you.”

 “Me?”

 “You, darling‘.”

 I took a moment to absorb that.

 “Where is he now?”

 “The judge didn’t think he was a flight risk or in personal danger, so
he’s out. He’s still living in a rental cabin in Cherokee.”

 “Why did Parker Davenport call Midkiff before shooting himself?”

 “To warn him that the lid was about to blow. Apparently the two
remained friends after Midkiff withdrew from H&F. It was largely because of the lieutenant
governor that Midkiff remained unmolested all these years. Davenport kept the club convinced
that Midkiff posed no threat; in return, Midkiff kept his mouth shut.”

 “Until now.”

 “Until now.”

 “What has he told you?”

 “H&F had eighteen members at any given time. Of those, six lucky
boys made up the inner circle. Very exclusive. Only when a member of that inner circle died was a
replacement chosen from the group at large. The initiation banquet was black tie; red, hooded
robe; dessert provided by the inductee.”

 “Human flesh.”

 “Yes. Remember the Hamatsa you told me about?”

 I nodded, too revolted to reply.

 “Same deal. Only our gentlemen cannibals restricted themselves to
sharing the flesh of one thigh from each victim. It was like a blood brotherhood pact. Though the
whole club met regularly at the Arthur house, Midkiff swears that only members of the inner
circle knew what really went on at these initiations.” I thought of Ralph Stover’s words to me.
“I found my offering.”

 “Tucker Adams was killed in 1943 when inner-circle member Henry Arlen
Preston died, and Anthony Alien Birkby joined the elite. When Sheldon Brodie drowned in 1949,
Martin Patrick Veck-hoff was the new inner-circle choice and Edna Farrell was his victim. Anthony
Alien Birkby perished in a car wreck a decade later, his son was given the inner-circle nod, and
Charlie Wayne Tramper ended up on the Communion table.”

 “Wasn’t Tramper killed by a bear?”

 “Young Birkby may have cheated a bit. The Tramper funeral was where
Parker Davenport met Simon Midkiff, by the way. Midkiff knew Tramper through his research on the
Cherokee.”

 “Did Midkiff know what had happened to Tramper?”

 “Claims he had no clue.”

 “How did Midkiff get hooked up with H&F?”

 “In 1955 the young professor was newly arrived from England, and had
been told to look up Prentice Dashwood, an old family friend. Dashwood recruited Midkiff into
H&F.”

 “He never made it to the inner circle.”

 “No.”

 “But Davenport did.”

 “Following the Tramper funeral, Midkiff gradually introduced Davenport
to the brothers. The idea of an intellectual elite appealed to Davenport, and he joined up.”

 “Even though he was from Swain County, Davenport had never known about
the lodge?”

 “Not before he joined. Apparently no one did. These guys were amazing
at keeping themselves hidden. They’d sneak in and out after dark. Over the years, everyone forgot
the place was there.”

 “Everyone except old Edward Arthur and Luke Bowman’s father.”

 “Right.” Mcmahon perused the contents of a drawer as if unsure whether
to pack or discard them.

 “And the club put nothing on paper.”

 “Very little.”

 He emptied the drawer into the box, reinserted it in the desk, opened
another.

 “What is all this shit?” He straightened and looked at me. “Continuing
with the chronology, John Morgan died in 1972, Mary Francis Rafferty was killed, and F.L. Warren
moved up. By this time, Midkiff was getting disenchanted. He quit shortly after that.”

 “So he may not have been a party to any murders.”

 “It looks that way. But Davenport’s dirty. In 1979 he was chosen to
replace William Glenn Sherman in the inner circle. Davenport’s canape was the unidentified black
male.”

 “Was it significant that the victims were drawn from different races
and both sexes?”

 “The idea was to maximize the breadth of spiritual intake.”

 “Jesus.”

 “Kendall Rollins succumbed to leukemia in 1986 and his son Paul took
his place.”

 “Albert Odell was the victim?”

 “Correct.”

 Mcmahon dumped the second drawer.

 “What happened with Jeremiah Mitchell and George Adair?”

 “Major fuck-up. When Martin Patrick Veckhoff checked out last February,
Roger Lee Fairley was slated for coronation. He was informed of the requirements, and Mitchell
was grabbed and killed. Fairley’s sudden death on the way to the Veckhoff funeral created a
problem, and Mitchell was put on ice while the succession issue was resolved.”

 “By whom?”

 “Ralph Stover was told that it would soon be his turn to move from the
outer to the inner circle, was advised of the conditions, and was asked to perform a few extra
duties. He stored Mitchelps body in a freezer at the Riverbank Inn.” I sup a shudder.

 “That’s why the volatile fatty acid readings were off.”

 “Exactly. In early September Stover was officially proposed to succeed
Veckhoff, and Mitchelps body was taken back and placed in the courtyard in preparation for an
induction ceremony. That’s when things began to unravel. Some within the inner circle opposed
Stover’s promotion, seeing him as too zealous, too unstable. The dispute dragged on,
decomposition began, meaning the body couldn’t be used for the ritual and the corpse had to be
buried in the cave.”

 “But not before a coyote visitation.”

 “Bless them.”

 “Stover did the dirty work again?”

 “He’s our man.”

 Mcmahon upended another drawer, taped the box, and labeled it with a
felt-tip pen.

 “Anyway, after weeks of wrangling, the Stover faction prevailed. George
Adair was abducted on October first. The crash occurred on October fourth.”

 “I retrieved the foot on October fifth.”

 He stacked the box with the earlier ones and opened a file drawer.

 “As you know, Stover also killed Primrose Hobbs. Lucy Crowe found
Stelazine in his apartment at the Riverbank Inn. The prescription was written by a Mexican doctor
for none other than Parker Davenport. Stover had four capsules in his pocket Sunday night.

 The same drug he used on Primrose.“

 He looked at me.

 “She also found a length of wire that matches the garrote from Hobbs’s
neck.”

 The cold fist. It still didn’t seem possible that Primrose was
dead.

 “He told me he did it because he could.”

 “An order may have come from the inner circle, or he may have been
acting on his own. Perhaps he feared she’d discovered something. He probably stole her key and
password to remove the foot from the morgue and alter the file.”

 “Has the foot been found?”

 “Never will be, I suspect. Hang on.”

 Mcmahon disappeared into the hall, returned with two more empty
boxes.

 “How can so much crap accumulate in one month?”

 “Don’t forget the rubber snake.”

 I pointed to an artifact on his desk.

 “I’m curious how Crowe found me.”

 “She and Ryan hit High Ridge House minutes apart Sunday night, well
past