by Kathy Reichs
Anne had a way of cutting to the quick.
“There were attempts to suppress the clubs, but they weren’t effective. When Dashwood gathered his little group of philanderers, the label Hell Fire naturally transferred.”
Hell Fire. H&F.
I swallowed.
“How long is this booklet?”
“Thirty-four pages.”
“Can you fax me a copy?”
“Sure. I can get two pages on one sheet.”
I gave her the number and went back to my report, forcing myself to concentrate. Within minutes the fax rang, screeched, and bonged, then began to spit out pages. I stayed with my description of Edna Farrell’s facial trauma. Some time later the machine reengaged. Again, I resisted the impulse to rush to it and gather Anne’s pages.
When I’d completed the Farrell report, I began another, a million thoughts screaming for ascendancy. Though I tried to focus, images broke through again and again.
Primrose Hobbs. Parker Davenport. Prentice Dashwood. Sir Francis. The Hell Fire Club. H&F. Was anything connected? The evidence was growing. There must be a connection.
Had Prentice Dashwood rekindled his ancestor’s idea of an elitist boys’ club here in the Carolina mountains? Had the members been more than hedonistic dilettantes? How much more? I pictured the cut marks, suppressed a shudder.
At four the guard came in to say that a deputy had fallen sick, another was stranded with a malfunctioning cruiser. Crowe sent her apologies but needed him to control a domestic situation. I assured him I’d be fine.
I worked on, the silence of the empty morgue wrapping around me like a living thing except for the hum of a refrigerator. My breath, my heartbeat, my fingers clicking the keyboard. Outside, branches scraped windowpanes high overhead. A train whistle. A dog. Crickets. Frogs.
No car horns. No traffic noises. No living person for miles.
My sympathetic nervous system kept the adrenaline in front row, center. I made frequent errors, jumped at every squeak and tap. More than once I wished for Boyd’s company.
By seven I’d finished with Farrell, Odell, Tramper, and Adams. My eyes burned, my back ached, and a dull headache told me that my blood sugar was in the cellar.
I copied my files to floppy, closed down my laptop, and went to collect Anne’s fax.
Though I was anxious to read about the eighteenth-century Sir Francis, I was too tired, too hungry, and too edgy to be objective. I decided to return to High Ridge House, walk Boyd, talk with Crowe, then read the pamphlet in the comfort and safety of my bed.
I was gathering pages when I heard what sounded like gravel crunching.
I froze, listening.
Tires? Footsteps?
Fifteen seconds. Thirty.
Nothing.
“Time to boogie,” I said aloud.
Tension made my movements jerky, and I dropped several papers from the basket. Gathering them from the floor, I noticed that one differed. The type was larger, the text arranged in columns.
I flipped through the other pages. Anne’s cover sheet. The front of the pamphlet. The rest were brochure text, two pages to a sheet, each numbered sequentially.
I remembered the machine’s pause. Could the odd page have arrived as a separate transmission? I looked but found no return fax number.
Taking everything to my office, I placed Anne’s material in my briefcase and lay the mismatched sheet on my desk. As I read the contents, my adrenaline rocketed even higher.
The left column contained code names, the middle one real names. Dates appeared after some individuals, forming an incomplete third column.
Ilus
Henry Arlen Preston
1943
Khaffre
Sheldon Brodie
1949
Omega
A. A. Birkby
1959
Narmer
Martin Patrick Veckhoff
Sinuhe
C. A. Birkby
Itzmana
John Morgan
1972
Arrigatore
F. L. Warren
Rho
William Glenn Sherman
1979
Chac
John Franklin Battle
Ometeotl
Parker Davenport
Only one name was unfamiliar. John Franklin Battle.
Or was it? Where had I heard that name?
Think, Brennan. Think.
John Battle.
No. That’s not right.
Franklin Battle.
Blank.
Frank Battle.
The magistrate who’d stonewalled the search warrant!
Would a mere magistrate qualify for membership? Had Battle been protecting the H&F property? Had he sent me the fax? Why?
And why was the most recent date more than twenty years old? Was the list incomplete? Why?
Then a terrifying thought.
Who knew I was here?
Alone.
Again I froze, listening for the faintest indicator of another presence. Picking up a scalpel, I slipped from my office to the main autopsy room.
Six skeletons stared upward, fingers and toes splayed, jaws silent beside their heads. I checked the computer and X-ray sections, the staff kitchenette, the makeshift conference room. My heart beat so loudly it seemed to overpower the stillness.
I was poking my head into the men’s toilet when my cell phone sounded for the third time. I nearly screamed from the tension.
A voice, smooth as a double latte.
“You’re dead.”
Then empty air.
31
I CALLED MCMAHON. NO ANSWER. CROWE. DITTO. I left messages: Seven thirty-eight. Leaving Alarka for High Ridge House. Call me.
Picturing the empty lot, the deserted county road, I punched Ryan’s number.
Another image. Ryan, facedown on an icy drive. I’d asked for his help that other time in Quebec. It had gotten him shot.
Ryan has no jurisdiction, Brennan. And no personal responsibility.
Instead of “send,” I hit the delete button.
My thoughts ricocheted like the metal sphere in a pinball game.
Someone should be told of my whereabouts. Someone I would not be placing in danger.
Sunday night. I dialed my old number.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice, mellow as a purring cat.
“Is Pete there?”
“He’s in the shower.”
I heard a wind chime tinkle. A wind chime I’d hung years ago outside my bedroom window.
“Is there a message?”
I clicked off.
“Fuck it,” I muttered. “I’ll take care of myself.”
Slinging purse and laptop over one shoulder, I rewrapped my fingers around the scalpel and readied my keys in the other hand. Then I cracked the door and peered out.
My Mazda was alone with the exiled hook-and-ladder trucks. In the deepening twilight, it looked like a warthog facing off with a herd of hippos.
Deep breath.
I bolted.
Reaching the car, I threw myself behind the wheel, slammed down the locks, revved the motor, and raced from the lot.
When I’d gone a mile, I began to calm, and an ill-focused anger seeped over the fear. I turned it on myself.
Jesus, you’re like the heroine in a B-grade movie. One crank call and you scream for the help of a big strong man.
Seeing deer on the shoulder, I checked my speed. Eighty. I slowed, returned to chiding myself.
No one leaped from behind the building, or grabbed your ankle from under the car.
True enough. But the fax was not a crank. Whoever sent that list knew I’d be the one to receive it. Knew I was alone at the morgue.
As I drove through Bryson City, I checked the rearview mirror repeatedly. The Halloween decorations now looked menacing rather than festive, the skeletons and tombstones macabre reminders of the hideous events that had unfolded nearby. I gripped the wheel, wondering i
f the souls of my skeletal dead wandered the world in search of justice.
Wondering if their killers wandered the world in search of me.
At High Ridge House, I cut the engine and peered down the road I’d just climbed. No headlights wound their way up the mountain.
I wrapped the scalpel in a Wendy’s napkin and zipped it into my jacket pocket for return to the morgue. Then I gathered my belongings and dashed to the porch.
The house was quiet as a church on Thursday. The parlor and kitchen were empty, and I passed no one on my way to the second floor. I heard no rustling or snoring from behind Ryan’s or McMahon’s doors.
I’d barely removed my jacket when a soft knock made me jump.
“Yes?”
“It’s Ruby.”
Her face was tense and pale, her hair glossier than a page from Vogue.
When I opened the door she handed me an envelope.
“This come for you today.”
I glanced at the return address. Department of Anthropology, University of Tennessee.
“Thank you.”
I started to close the door but she held up a hand.
“There’s something you need to know. Something I need to tell you.”
“I’m very tired, Ruby.”
“It wasn’t an intruder who wrecked your room. It was Eli.”
“Your nephew?”
“He’s not my nephew.”
She halted.
“The Gospel of Matthew tells us that whoever shall put away his wife—”
“Why would Eli trash my things?” I was not in the mood for religious discourse.
“My husband left me for another woman. She and Enoch had a child.”
“Eli?”
She nodded.
“I wished terrible things for them. I wished them to burn in hell. I thought, if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. I plucked them from my life.”
I heard the muffled sound of Boyd’s barking.
“When Enoch passed, God touched my heart. Judge not and ye shall not be judged; condemn not and ye shall not be condemned; forgive and ye shall be forgiven.”
She sighed deeply.
“Eli’s mother died six years ago. The boy had no one, so I took him in.”
Her eyes dropped, returned to mine.
“A man’s foes shall be they of his own household. Eli hates me. Takes joy in tormenting me. He knows I take pride in this house. He knows I like you. He was just getting at me.”
“Perhaps he just wants attention.”
Look at the kid, I thought, but didn’t say it.
“Perhaps.”
“I’m sure he’ll come around in time. And don’t worry about my things. Nothing was taken.” I changed the subject. “Is anyone else here?”
She shook her head.
“I believe Mr. McMahon’s gone off to Charlotte. Haven’t seen Mr. Ryan all day. Everyone else has checked out.”
Again, I heard barking.
“Has Boyd been a nuisance?”
“Dog’s been ornery today. Needs exercising.” She brushed her skirt. “I’m off to church. Shall I bring dinner before I leave?”
“Please.”
Ruby’s roast pork and yam pudding had a calming effect. As I ate, the panic that had sent me racing through the twilight gave way to a dismal loneliness.
I remembered the woman on Pete’s phone, wondered why hearing her voice felt like a kick in the gut. I know postcoital somnolence when I hear it, but so what? Pete and I were both adults. I’d left him. He was free to see whomever he pleased.
Condemn not and ye shall rock.
I wondered how I really felt about Ryan. I knew he was a bastard, but at least he was a winsome bastard, though I could do without his smoking. He was smart. He was funny. He was dizzyingly handsome, but completely unaware of his effect on women. And he cared about people.
Lots of people.
Like Danielle.
So why had Ryan’s number been one of the first I’d started to dial? Was it just that he was nearby, or was he more than a colleague, a person I would think of for protection or comfort?
I remembered Primrose and was again flattened with remorse. I’d involved my friend and now she was dead. I’d gotten her killed. The guilt was crushing, and I was sure it would follow me the rest of my life.
Enough. Read the letter Ruby brought. It will thank you for the lecture and say it was splendid.
It did. The envelope also contained a copy of the student newsletter with its photo of me and Simon Midkiff. To say I looked tense would be like saying Olive Oyl was on the thin side.
But Simon Midkiff took best of show. I studied his face, wondering what had been in his mind that day. Had he been sent to pump me for information? Had he come on his own? My scientific colleagues often attend one another’s lectures. Was it he who had faxed me the code name list? If so, why would he divulge his complicity?
My musings were interrupted by a sharp yip, followed by another.
Poor Boyd. He was the only being on the planet whose loyalty never wavered, and I ignored him. I checked my watch. Eight-twenty. Time for a quick run before Crowe arrived at nine.
I locked my computer and briefcase in the wardrobe in case Eli decided on a return engagement. Then I threw on my jacket, grabbed flashlight and leash, and headed downstairs.
Night had taken full control, ushering in a zillion stars but no moon. The porch lights did little to dispel the darkness. As I crossed the lawn, my limbic system began firing questions.
What if someone is watching?
Like Eli the Avenging Adolescent?
What if the call was not a prank?
Don’t be melodramatic, I reasoned. It’s the weekend after Halloween, and kids are kicking up their heels. You left messages with McMahon and Crowe.
What if they don’t check?
The sheriff will be here in forty minutes.
A stalker might be out there right now.
What could happen in the company of a seventy-pound chow?
That seventy-pound chow yipped again, and I sprinted the last few yards to his pen. Hearing footsteps, he placed forepaws on the chain-linking and raised himself to a bipedal stance.
When he recognized me, Boyd went ballistic, pushing back, bounding forward, jumping up, and pushing off the fence again. He repeated the cycle several times, like a hamster on a wheel, then stood again on hind feet, threw back his head, and barked steadily.
Saying doggy things, I ruffled his ears and clipped on the leash. He nearly dragged me chowside in his lunge toward the gate.
“We’re only going to the end of the property,” I warned, leveling a finger at his nose.
He cocked his head, twirled the brows, and yipped once. When I lifted the latch, he bounded out and raced in circles, nearly toppling me.
“I envy your energy, Boyd.”
He lapped my face as I disentangled the leash from between his legs, then we started up the road. Light from the porch barely reached the edge of the lawn, and within ten yards I clicked on my flash. Boyd stopped and growled.
“It’s a flashlight, boy.”
I reached down and patted his shoulder. He rotated his head and licked my hand, then doubled back, did a little dance, and pressed his body against my legs.
I was about to move on when I felt him tense. His head dropped, his breathing changed, and a low rumble rose from his throat. He did not respond to my touch.
“What is it, boy?”
More rumbling.
“Not another dead squirrel.”
I reached out to stroke him and felt hackles. Not good. I tugged the leash.
“Come on, boy, we’re turning back.”
He would not move.
“Boyd.”
The growl grew deeper, more savage.
I aimed my light where Boyd was staring. The beam crawled over tree trunks and was sucked into dead zones of blackness between.
I yanked the leash harder. Boyd whipped left and ba
rked. I swept my light in that direction.
“This isn’t funny, dog.”
Then my eyes made out a form. Or had it been a trick of shadow? In the moment I glanced down at Boyd, what I thought I’d seen vanished. Or had it been there at all?
“Who’s there?” Fear crimped my voice.
Nothing but crickets and frogs. A fallen tree lodged against one still standing groaned and creaked in the air.
Suddenly I heard movement behind me. Footfalls. The rustling of leaves.
Boyd turned and snapped, lunging as far as the leash would allow.
“Who’s there?” I repeated.
A silhouette emerged from the trees, denser than the surrounding night. Boyd snarled and tore at the leash. The dark shape moved toward us.
“Who is it?”
No answer.
I thrust the flashlight and leash into one hand and reached for my cell phone with the other. Before I could autodial, it slipped from my shaking fingers.
“Stay back!” It was almost a shriek.
I raised the light to shoulder level. As I was readjusting the leash for better control, about to reach for the phone, my grip loosened. Boyd broke free and charged, teeth gleaming, a fierce growl rumbling from his throat.
In an instant the silhouette altered shape. An arm uncurled.
Boyd leaped.
A flash. A deafening crack.
The dog bounced off the silhouette, dropped to the ground, whimpered, and lay still.
“Boyd!”
Tears ran down my cheeks. I wanted to tell him I’d take care of him. Tell him he’d be all right, but my body was paralyzed with fear, and no words came from my mouth.
The form moved swiftly toward me now. I turned to run. Hands grabbed me. I twisted, wrenched free. The shadow coalesced into a man.
He hit me with his full weight, his shoulder beneath my armpit. The shock of the impact sent me falling sideways.
The last thing I remembered was breath on my face, sprawling. Then the crack of my skull against igneous rock.
* * *
The dream was frightening. An airless place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see. Then something stroked my cheek.